


Reapers

by elizaye



Series: Fifty Follower Fics [1]
Category: Sons of Anarchy, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Angst, Attempted Murder, Conspiracy, Corruption, Crossover, Explosions, F/F, F/M, Gangs, Guns, Illegal Activities, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, POV Multiple, Plot-heavy, References to Drugs, Revenge, Slow Build, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 186,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaye/pseuds/elizaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Reapers are not a gang; they're a club of automotive mechanics and motorcycle enthusiasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fortunate Son

**Author's Note:**

> I am doing a thing on tumblr where I fill a prompt for every fiftieth follower. This is the (very belated) fic for follower number 50, [blackteamarshmallows](http://blackteamarshmallows.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Prompt: _Um, okay, based on this dude I saw irl that looked like Cas, can I request a motorbiker AU? Leather pants and all that jazz? I hope that’s alright with you._
> 
> In our conversation about the prompt, we got to talking about Sons of Anarchy, and I kinda went overboard and decided to just write a full-on Sons of Anarchy AU, so that's where we are, now. If you're a fan of the show, I hope you have fun catching parallels. I tried matching members of the Sons one by one with members of the Reapers (with a few tweaks, of course). **Don't worry if you've never watched the show** , though; I'm only picking out certain details to keep from the plot, and you don't need to know any of it at all to understand the fic. If there are any terms that confuse you, I have a list in the end notes that will hopefully help.
> 
> Also, there will be some names that sound funny to you, but they're nicknames. Trust me; every character in this first chapter comes from SPN. There are no OCs yet. Maybe when I'm finished writing the entire fic, I'll post a list of names, but I think you'll have enough hints as the story goes along, to figure out who's who.
> 
> Special thanks to [Lemon](http://lemonrow.tumblr.com/) for her helpful suggestions and for keeping me sane. I owe her like a million hugs and kisses.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy Novak gets hit by a car. At the hospital, the Reapers learn that Dean Winchester has returned to Morada, after a fifteen-year absence. News of the accident spreads to the Amazons in Stockton.

“According to the guards, William Harvelle has been exhibiting excellent behavior,” Jimmy says. Jules just looks at him expectantly, fingers steepled, so he continues, “Means that he should be paroled at the agreed twenty-year mark, as long as he behaves for the next three months.”

“That’s excellent news,” Jules says. “Thank you, son.”

Jimmy doesn’t flinch. “It’s no trouble,” he responds with a light smile. “I’m being paid, anyway.”

Jules nods once to acknowledge his point before waving his hand, dismissing him. Jimmy snaps his folder shut and gets to his feet.

“Just try to keep the club out of _big_ trouble, all right?” he says as he’s leaving the room.

“Of course,” Jules answers, smiling obligingly.

Yeah, Jimmy doesn’t believe that for a second. But he walks out of the chapel without another word because he’s already said enough.

“Everything okay?” Mike asks. He gets up from his seat at the bar and heads toward the chapel.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Jimmy answers.

Mike flashes a quick smile in his direction before going in to talk to Jules.

Jules has been his stepfather for—fuck, for longer than he hasn’t, and Jimmy’s used to him. And even if he doesn’t like him, he has to admit that Jules keeps his family safe. Sure, he probably doesn’t _really_ care about Jimmy, but he does care about Mom and Cas, so he has to look after Jimmy by extension.

But he doesn’t blame Jules for preferring Cas. Ever since he was little—long before Dad died, even—Jimmy had no interest in motorcycles and even less in guns and killing people. Cas, on the other hand, loved bikes, loved guns, and—well, he didn’t seem opposed to killing people for the right reasons.

God, what a fucked up mentality.

Jimmy had always gotten along a lot better with Sam, who felt just about the same way that he did about his family, and about the club. His thoughts pause on Sam for a moment, because wow, it’s been a long time since they last spoke. He knows that Sam is working at the DA’s office in Stockton, which probably doesn’t pay as well as Jimmy’s private practice, but at least Sam is on the right side—at least one of them managed to get away from this club and all the shit that comes with it.

Jimmy’s always known that he would never be able to shake his family, not with the way Naomi hung onto him and refused to let go. He knows that she loves him, but sometimes he wishes that she were a normal mom, that she could have learned to let him go.

But he doesn’t think he could have gone anyway, not the way that Sam did. He loves Cas too much not to help when the club really needs it.

Sighing, Jimmy exits the clubhouse and walks out of the lot—it’s later than it usually is when he visits the clubhouse, so he chose to park on the street instead, because the last time he parked his car here after hours, one of the prospects locked it inside while he was still meeting with Jules.

He pauses under one of the lights along the outside wall of the clubhouse to check his watch. It’s nine thirty, which is better than he’d expected; he’d been almost positive that Jules would keep him ‘til ten, at the very least.

Smiling, Jimmy continues toward the street. Barring catastrophe, he’ll get to talk to Claire before her bedtime tonight.

* * *

Johnny takes a drag of his cigarette before letting his hand return to its original position, hanging out the window. He lets the smoke out slowly, eyes on the chain-link fence that surrounds Morton-Novak.

The family’s been talking about taking out one of the Reapers, starting some shit here because after the last meeting with Dick Roman, they can finally afford to. But the problem is, Samuel’s just been sitting on the plan. Hell, if it’s left up to the old man, they’ll probably never drive the Reapers out of Morada.

No, they need to take action.

That’s why Johnny’s here, now, watching the place. But so far, he hasn’t seen any movement outside the clubhouse, and there might only be one actual Reaper at the shop. He’s sighted one, maybe two prospects—it’s hard to tell them apart at that distance, but he’s only seen one at a time.

Johnny’s just started his car, figuring that it’d be better to come back on a night when more of them are around, when he notices a single figure leaving the clubhouse and coming across the lot, toward the street. He’s a bit far to identify, but he’s wearing a suit-and-tie and a long trench coat. Not quite the normal attire of one of the Reapers…

But then the man stops under a light, and Johnny gets a good look at his face—Cas Novak, the VP.

 _Perfect_.

He shifts into drive with his foot on the brake and waits until Cas is already crossing the street before flicking his headlights on. Before his target has time to react, Johnny slams his foot down on the gas.

* * *

“Lights out!” Gabe shouts maybe a second before actually shutting them off.

“Hey!” Alf yelps—Gabe knows it’s him because Bacon’s voice doesn’t go that high.

Laughing, Gabe waits for the prospects to run out of the garage before tugging on the chain to close the door. Bacon comes over to take over, and Gabe backs off, grabbing Alf in a chokehold and messing up his hair because Alf is freakin’ hilarious when he’s irritable.

A loud shout draws their attention, and Gabe looks up in time to see a car ramming into someone without even slowing down, tires screeching on the gravel.

“Shit,” Gabe hears from behind him—Bacon—but he’s already broken into a sprint, Alf close on his heels.

Gabe reaches the body lying spread-eagle in the street first, freezing when he sees the familiar face.

“Oh god, tell me that’s not—” Alf starts, voice going high again.

“It’s not,” Gabe says firmly, and the rush of relief in his chest is probably all sorts of wrong, but he can’t exactly help it. “It’s not Cas,” he says, dropping to his knees by Jimmy’s legs because there’s blood—shit, there’s blood.

“Oh, god, it’s Jimmy,” Alf says, realizing what Gabe put together instantly—the trench coat, the suit, definitely Jimmy.

“Call Cas!” Gabe barks at Alf as Bacon reaches them. He points a finger at him and says, “And you, call 911—tell them we need an ambulance here!”

Jimmy’s breathing, Gabe notes as he draws a knife to cut away the leg of his suit pants and take a look at what might be causing the bleeding. The gash is on the outside of his thigh, and the blood flow doesn’t look fatal—Gabe’s seen his fair share of fatal injuries, and he knows what it looks like when someone’s gonna bleed out in seconds or minutes. Still he presses a hand to the wound in an attempt to stem the bleeding and uses his other hand to feel around Jimmy’s leg. It _seems_ as though his leg isn’t broken, thank god, but Gabe can’t tell what else might be wrong with him.

“Did you see anything?”

Gabe looks up when he hears Mike’s voice and answers, “I caught a glimpse of the car that hit him, but I didn’t get a good look. It was going too fast.”

“Shit,” Mike says.

Bacon hangs up and says, “An ambulance is on its way.”

Looking around, Gabe spots Alf a few steps away, presumably still on the phone with Cas. He turns his attention to Jules and asks, “What do we do?”

“Did either of the prospects see anything?” Jules asks.

“Well, there was a car parked out front earlier,” Bacon says. “I’m pretty sure it was one of the Campbells because it was red, with their symbol painted in white on the front passenger door.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that a goddamn _Campbell_ was at our doorstep?” Mike says angrily.

“I didn’t think they’d start anything!” Bacon says defensively.

“Calm down,” Jules says. “We have no reason to believe that the Campbells want to disturb the balance between us here.”

“Well of course they _want_ to,” Gabe says, frowning. The Campbells have wanted to start selling at home in Morada for years, but the Reapers have been vigilant about keeping drugs out, so they totally have reason. But Jules is right—it doesn’t make sense that they’d attack first, not after all this time. They’re supposedly making pretty good money in Lodi, anyway.

“Cas says he’ll meet us at the hospital. And he doesn’t want us to tell Naomi or Amelia,” Alf reports, returning to the group.

“They’re going to have to know eventually,” Mike points out.

“Yes, but it’s best not to worry them before we even understand the threat,” Jules decides. “We need to find out whether or not this was a calculated move against us.”

“Well, we’re not gonna figure it out here,” Gabe says. “Bacon and I will stay here—you guys should all get outta here before the paramedics come. We’ll call as soon as we know anything about Jimmy.”

Jules just nods once before heading back into the lot, followed closely by Mike and Alf. Less than a minute later, the three ride out of the lot and disappear down the road.

* * *

“You sure you don’t want anything more interesting to drink?” Jo asks. “I could use the practice.”

Dean laughs. “You’re gonna use a paying customer for _practice?_ What would your mother say, Joanna Beth?”

Jo just laughs with him and looks around at the other people who are sitting at the bar. Dean follows her gaze, but there aren’t many people here on a Tuesday night, so she’s free to talk.

“Where’s Ellen, anyway?” Dean asks. He only just moved back to Morada a little over a week ago, and when Ellen found out that he was back in town, she’d immediately called to tell him that he was a little shit for not coming to visit her first.

“Home,” Jo replies. “She left early tonight, told me to close up. You really shoulda called ahead of time.”

Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Hey, you saw me here, so I get points for trying to surprise her.”

“I guess you do,” Jo concedes with a nod.

“So, how’s school? You having fun?”

“I’m not there to have fun,” Jo says, sighing. “I thought nursing school was gonna be a piece o’ cake, but it takes up a lot of time, surprisingly. Between school and work and homework, I don’t actually have that much time to have fun.”

Dean chuckles. “At least your job is kinda fun, right?”

Jo rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right. It’s better when I’m here ‘cause my mom runs the place, but I’m taking shifts at this club in Stockton on Wednesdays and Thursdays, and the guys there are such pervs.”

“Yikes,” Dean says before lifting the beer bottle to his lips and taking a drink.

“Y’know, now that you’re at St. David’s, I totally expect you to give me an awesome recommendation when I get my BSN,” Jo says, bracing her elbows on the bar and leaning toward Dean.

“Hmm,” Dean says, leaning toward her and rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe I should have you make me a drink before I make up my mind. There’s no way you’ll be a good nurse if you can’t mix a drink right.”

Jo laughs at his absurdity. “What would you like to drink, then, doctor?” she asks.

Before Dean can answer, his pager goes off, and he fumbles through his pockets to find it. An emergency code is showing—looks like Dean’s gonna be working after all, tonight.

“What’s up?” Jo asks.

“Emergency at the hospital,” Dean says, getting to his feet and pulling out his wallet. “Guess we’ll have to save the drink for another night—you said you were here on Fridays and Saturdays too, right?”

“Yeah,” Jo answers. “Go save lives. I’ll tell Mom you dropped by.”

“Yeah, you’d better,” Dean says, leaving a few bills on the counter before pocketing his wallet and hurrying out of the bar. Once outside, he gets into the Impala and heads off to St. David’s.

* * *

Bobby’s already at the warehouse when he gets the call from Cas, saying that Jimmy’s been hit by a car, and they oughta be careful in case this was the first of a series of planned attacks. Bobby offers to call the others, but Cas tells him that they’re probably already on their way, and Bobby should just stay where he is to keep watch.

Luce shows up five minutes later, angry and quietly bloodthirsty in the way that he always gets when someone’s been hurt.

“They were looking to hurt Cas,” Luce fumes, glaring at Bobby but not _at_ Bobby.

“Maybe,” Bobby says.

“What do you mean, _maybe?_ Why the hell would anyone wanna whack a harmless lawyer? They were definitely going for Cas. Fuck.”

“We don’t know it was on purpose yet. It could have been a coincidence,” Bobby suggests, and Luce gives him an incredulous look, which he supposes he probably deserves. Yeah, it’s probably not a coincidence. How often do accidents happen, anyway?

Only about ten more minutes pass before Jules, Mike, and Alf arrive, but it feels like a goddamned lifetime with the way Luce is pacing back and forth in front of him.

“Any news on Jimmy?” Bobby asks immediately, before the guys are even off their bikes.

“Nothing yet,” Mike says as he gets off. He turns toward Luce before the guy can even ask and says, “We think it might have been the Campbells. Bacon says he saw one of their cars parked outside the shop.”

“Don’t be rash,” Jules says, heading Luce off before he can get started.

“What’re we gonna do, then, Pres?” Luce asks.

“Right now? Nothing.”

Luce is clearly dissatisfied with the answer. “No, we—we can’t just take this lying down. We gotta hit them hard, or they’ll think they can just take one of us out whenever they like.”

“Jimmy did not appear to be in critical condition,” Jules says calmly. “First, we need to set a meeting with the Campbells to clear up the misunderstanding. In the meantime, we will verify the make and model of the car with Bacon to see which of the happy family attacked my club.”

“And _then_ we’ll retaliate, right?”

“I’d prefer to find a diplomatic solution,” Jules replies. “In any case, we have not even confirmed that Samuel ordered the attack. It is too early for retaliation.”

“And it doesn’t seem calculated,” Bobby adds. “If it were, I’m almost certain they would have come here to try to get at our guns. I was already here when Cas called, and I haven’t seen a soul pass by.”

“A sit-down, then,” Mike says. “When do you want me to make the call?”

“It can wait until morning,” Jules answers. “We should wait the night out and see if there’s a follow-up to the hit on Jimmy.”

Luce subsides, but Bobby knows that he won’t be satisfied until some sort of vengeance has been served. Best to keep an eye on him for the time being.

“I’ll stay up here at the warehouse,” Bobby volunteers. “I can keep Luce and Alf here with me—we’ll make sure no one makes a move on the guns.”

Jules nods. “I oughta head down to the hospital, see my stepson. Mike, you’re with me.” As he gets back on his bike, he asks, “Anyone heard from Aggie?”

“I think he’s still up at the cabin,” Alf answers. “Should we call him about this?”

Jules deliberates for a moment. “Yes,” he decides. “Tell him there is no need to hurry back, but we thought it best to notify him. He should be safe at the cabin.”

“Got it,” Alf says, pulling out his cell phone.

“I’ll see you boys tomorrow,” Jules says before taking off.

* * *

It takes Cas way longer than he would have liked to reach St. David’s, because he’d been out for a joyride, headed up the 5 toward Sacramento for no real reason other than to feel his bike purring under him, the wind whipping past him.

God, it seems so stupid and insignificant now, his heart beating practically double-time because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Jimmy doesn’t make it. What would he tell Mom? Fuck, what would he tell _Amelia and Claire?_

So as soon as he gets to St. David’s, he hops off his bike and runs inside, taking his helmet off as he passes through the doors.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, now—slow down, Novak,” someone says, grabbing onto his elbow, and Cas whips around, ready to lash out at whoever’s holding him back, but shit, of _course_ it’d be the fucking police.

“What do you want, Henriksen?” he demands.

“I just want to know what happened.”

“What—I headed over here as soon as I heard. _I_ don’t even know what happened,” Cas says, forcing himself to remain calm. Decking the deputy is the last thing he needs to do right now.

“Well, I thought that maybe your boys would be able to shed some light on the situation, but they aren’t cooperating,” Henriksen says with a pointed look down the hall.

“Maybe they’re in shock because someone close to them was just in an accident,” Cas says evenly. The officer eyes him skeptically, but Cas really doesn’t give a shit what he thinks. “Can I go now, or are you going to charge me with being concerned for my brother?”

“Go ahead,” Henriksen relents, turning away.

Cas makes his way down the hall and toward the ER—he’s been to this place enough times to be familiar with its layout. He finds Gabe and Bacon seated against a wall outside one of the surgery rooms and looks at them expectantly.

“Nothing yet,” Gabe says. “All the nurses have said is that the surgeon’s working.”

“What do we know about the accident? Was it a hit?” Cas asks, voice lowered.

“Maybe,” Gabe says. “Bacon thinks he saw one of the Campbells parked outside the shop before the hit, so it could have been calculated.”

“Not retaliation, though,” Cas says, frowning. “We haven’t done anything to anyone lately, have we?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Anyway, we told the police that we didn’t see anything,” Bacon says.

Gabe cuffs the prospect in the back of his head and says, “Yeah, like that needed saying. Christ.” After a pause, he says, “Naomi and Amelia don’t know anything yet. You still wanna hold off on telling them, or should we maybe call them here to wait?”

“If we can spare them the worry, we will,” Cas says. “We wait until they’re done here. Alf said it didn’t look like there was a lot of blood, right?”

“No, not as much as there could’ve been,” Gabe says, looking down at his hands.

The skin is reddened, and Cas can tell that it’s recently been scrubbed clean—he must have been the one trying to stop the bleeding.

Cas sinks onto the bench next to Gabe with a soft sigh. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem, brother.”

* * *

“I still don’t want my Gwen involved in this shit,” Ed says.

Robert looks over at his brother and thinks he totally understands. He didn’t want either of his sons to follow him into the family business, but Samuel’s word is law, and besides, they earn at least as much money making and selling crank as they would at some other job, and they can do it without having to pay their way through college.

Still, he sympathizes with Ed. Gwen is only twenty years old, and while she knows what the family does, Samuel has allowed her to go to community college, hasn’t pressed her to join in. At least, not ‘til now.

“We’re gonna need bodies if we’re working this deal with the Leviathans,” Samuel says. “Your daughter can handle a gun as well as any of us, and that means she’s part of this.”

Ed clenches his jaw. “Yeah, like Mary was part of this? Because that worked out so well.”

Robert shoots a glare in his brother’s direction because damn it, now Samuel looks pissed off, and any chance they had of getting Gwen off the hook probably just evaporated.

It’s always been a sore subject with Samuel, talking about how Mary left the family to marry one of those bikers, those fuckin’ Reapers who make it so that the family can’t do business in its own town. Honestly, Robert doesn’t care all that much about not being able to sell in Morada, and he cares even less for that Dick Roman, but he knew as soon as Roman mentioned taking down the Reapers that Samuel would jump on the opportunity. He’s never stopped blaming John Winchester for the death of his daughter.

There’s a knock on the door before Samuel can actually say anything, and Johnny calls, “Hey, can I come in for a minute?”

Robert frowns, because his son is supposed to be at home right now. “What do you want?” he asks.

“It’s important,” Johnny insists.

Samuel sighs and says, “Come on in, kid.”

The door swings open, and Johnny enters. As soon as he’s finished closing the door, he says, “I did it—I made the first move.”

Robert instantly looks over at Samuel, whose eyes have narrowed, gone sharp. What the hell was Johnny thinking? He’s not a goddamned _kid_ anymore, and Robert shouldn’t have to hold his hand through everything. Rash.

“What did you do?” Samuel asks.

“I hit Cas Novak with my car.”

It’s silent for maybe a second, and Robert hangs his head.

“You _hit_ the _VP_ with your _car?_ ” Samuel nearly shouts, furious.

“Well, yeah,” Johnny says, in a smaller voice this time because he’s figured out that he’s messed up.

“Damn it, we were supposed to start _small_ ,” Samuel says. “What we wanted was to work our way up ‘til the Reapers had no choice but to retaliate. Hitting the VP this early in the game puts them on their guard. They’re gonna think that we’ve got something, and we haven’t even nailed down all the details with Roman, yet.”

“It isn’t so bad,” Ed tries.

“Isn’t so bad? How much do you wanna bet I’m gonna get a call from the Reapers tomorrow morning, asking for a sit-down? What the fuck am I supposed to tell them, huh? That my idiot of a grandnephew decided to just floor the gas pedal because he saw their VP crossing the street?”

“I’m sorry,” Johnny says.

“Just go,” Robert says wearily, gesturing for him to leave the room. “Go home. We’ll deal with this.”

“Yeah, go on,” Samuel says, waving a hand dismissively.

When Johnny is gone, Ed says, “Well, Dick said that he’d have our back. So if the Reapers come in, guns blazing—”

“But they won’t,” Samuel interrupts. “I know them—grew up with Bobby and Aggie, even. Aggie may not be as influential in the club as he used to be, but Jules and Bobby are levelheaded enough to keep things from going over the top right off the bat. They’ll want to meet. All we can do for now is hope that Cas lives.”

“What’ll we tell them, then?” Robert asks. “If Cas dies, they’re gonna need someone in return.”

“What do you _think_ we’ll tell ‘em?” Samuel asks, fixing a hard look on Robert.

Shit. It’s Johnny’s fault, sure, but Robert doesn’t think he can let his boy die, just like that. “I don’t—”

“I don’t want that, either,” Samuel says. “But if it’s a choice between that boy and this family, you know which one I’ll choose.”

“Yeah,” Robert says quietly. If it comes to that, he’ll offer himself and just tell Johnny to take whatever money they have saved up and leave, get as far away from this family as he can. If he can get to someplace where Samuel can’t find him, maybe he’ll be able to have a happy life.

“Good. I can’t believe this actually needs to be said, but I want all future hits to go through me, all right?” Samuel says. “Make sure your kids know that. It’s not as though we’re thugs that can’t think things through. If we’re too hasty, Dick might rethink his offer of partnership, and we’ll be stuck facing the Reapers’ retaliation with no backup.”

“Got it,” Ed says.

When Samuel’s eyes land on Robert again, he just nods his agreement.

“Okay. Go on, both of you. I need to get some sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”

* * *

Meg rides her bike right up onto the driveway and parks it there, removing her helmet before climbing off and jogging around to the front door. It’s kinda late, and Bela’s gonna bitch, but she needs to tell them the news—information is power, right?

The door opens after she’s been banging on it for a few minutes, and Bela appears in the doorway, hair mussed and pulling her robe tight around herself against the cool night air. “Why are you _here_ , Meg?” she says, yawning. “Aren’t you supposed to be with your daddy in Morada?”

“I want to talk to both of you,” Meg says.

Sighing, Bela steps aside to let Meg inside before shutting the door. “Honey! It’s just Meg!” she calls.

Meanwhile, Meg moves into the next room and sits down on the plush couch. Abaddon doesn’t care much about these sorts of comforts, but Bela’s all about living lavishly, and it shows in the decorations hanging around the room.

“Just wait here,” Bela says, disappearing in the direction of their bedroom.

A few minutes later, Abaddon comes in wearing a tight-fitting tee and slim jeans. Her hair is hanging loose where it’s normally twisted into an updo, but her face is still made, lips still blood-red— _she doesn’t appear before the club without her battle armor_ , Tammi once said. All Meg can think right now is that it’s for good reason. Abaddon may be twice Meg’s age, but _damn_ , she rocks this look.

“What is it?” she asks, settling into the loveseat by the couch and looking over at Meg.

“And is it going to take long?” Bela adds, reappearing. She’s still in her robe, but her hair is a little less wild than it was before. “If so, I’m making coffee.”

“It shouldn’t be long,” Meg answers, so Bela perches on the arm of Abaddon’s loveseat, crossing her legs. They’re both watching her expectantly, so Meg says, “I was walking toward Morton-Novak earlier on tonight—” the club doesn’t like it when other bikers are on their territory, so Meg usually parks her bike a few blocks away from the auto shop when she goes to visit, “—and I saw Cas get hit by a car.”

“What?” Bela says, brows furrowed. “How did he—”

“He was crossing the street, and a car just rammed into him,” Meg says. “I’m almost positive it was one of the Campbells. I didn’t get a good look because the guy was driving so fast when he passed by me, but I think I saw the Campbell family crest on one of the car doors.”

“Why the hell was Cas crossing the street, though?” Abaddon says. “They park their bikes inside.”

And now that Meg thinks about it, Abaddon’s right. Cas looked like he’d been headed toward a car, but Cas normally doesn’t drive places, and especially not to the clubhouse. Meg hadn’t really given herself much time to consider what had happened, just hopped onto her bike and headed straight here, and now—“It might have been Jimmy,” she realizes, and is surprised by how relieved she feels.

“The twin?” Bela says. “I don’t see why he’d be at the clubhouse. He’s a lawyer, isn’t he? Are they in some sort of trouble?”

Meg shrugs. “It’s not as though my dad tells me everything.”

Abaddon frowns. “You should have stayed there and just given us a call,” she says. “Now you have to explain to your daddy why you didn’t show.”

“I could probably get to his house in twenty minutes if I leave now,” Meg says. “I’ll just say that I got to their street, saw the police, and turned tail to wait for him at the house.”

“Okay, then. Keep an eye on the situation from there and let us know if anything happens.”

Meg nods, getting to her feet and heading for the door.

“Thank you, Meg,” Abaddon adds just as Meg turns the doorknob. She half-turns toward the living room, but Abaddon is still facing away, leaning forward now. Bela smiles in her direction, short but sincere, and gives her a brisk nod.

Meg leaves the house and pulls the door shut before going around to the driveway and getting back on her bike, tugging her helmet on. Time to go see Daddy.

* * *

“We have to keep an eye on the situation,” Abaddon says, thinking out loud. “If it really was a Campbell, there could be a shitstorm brewing, and we’ll want to be prepared in case it spills over onto our turf. The Reapers won’t want to fight right at their door, and the Campbells won’t want violence in Lodi ruining their business, so they’ll probably come our way.”

“Should we warn the Demons?” Bela asks, glancing back at Abaddon from the door.

“Perhaps, but it can wait ‘til tomorrow,” Abaddon answers. “It won’t hurt to give them a warning before the fight comes to our doorstep. And they’ll be more inclined to help, if it comes to that.”

Bela sighs and runs a hand through her hair as she returns from locking the front door. “We’ll never get a good bit of peace and quiet, will we?”

This coaxes a laugh from Abaddon’s lips. “Because _you’re_ so fond of the quiet life.”

“Well, it certainly allows us more time for each other,” Bela says, settling in her partner’s lap and pulling her close for a kiss.

“Hmm,” Abaddon hums into the kiss before pulling back, a promising look in her eyes. “I suppose we should make the most of this night, then. I don’t expect many more in the near future.”

“I’d like that.”

* * *

Limey runs a hand through his wife’s hair and plays a little with the ends of it, light blonde and so, so soft. She catches his hand and tangles their fingers together.

“Are you here?” she asks.

Limey smiles. “Yeah. ‘Course. I was just remembering how we used to sleep with the kids here, taking up all our space,” he says, maybe a little wistfully.

“They’re not toddlers anymore,” Rachel replies. “And they still need time, baby. They never really understood why you were gone, and you’ve really only been back in their lives for two weeks. Just—be patient. It’ll be fine.”

“I know,” Limey says, closing his eyes. He’d like to say that the kids are the only reason for the gaping hole in his chest, but he knows that they aren’t. Even on the inside, he let the guys know that he wouldn’t be coming back to the club when he got out; Rachel couldn’t take it anymore, even threatened to leave him, and he couldn’t live without her.

“I know you miss them,” Rachel says quietly, squeezing his hand lightly.

“No,” Limey denies, opening his eyes again.

“Don’t lie to me. I know that the club was a big part of your life, but this really is for the best,” she says. “You’re still allowed to _talk_ to them, though.”

Limey huffs lightly. “I already have everyone I need here,” he says, shifting forward to kiss her. “Besides, I don’t want to get locked up for another five years, either.”

Rachel’s smiling when he pulls back, and he can’t believe that she pulled through on her own for so long, that she _stayed_ when she could have taken the kids and left. Limey’s sure she wouldn’t have had a hard time getting full custody over the kids, seeing as he was still locked up.

His cell phone rings then, and he sighs. “I don’t wanna get it,” he says.

“Just check who it is,” Rachel says.

“If they’re changing my shift at the lumberyard again, I swear I’m gonna hurt someone,” Limey says, rolling away from Rachel to grab his phone from the nightstand. The caller ID says _Aggie_ , and he sighs. “It’s Dad. I should probably take it.” Rachel just nods, and Limey places the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Limey, I got some news for you.”

“If it’s anything to do with the club, I don’t wanna know,” Limey says, glancing over at Rachel. Her eyes are closed.

“Jimmy was hit by a car tonight.”

Limey jerks upright. “ _What?_ ”

“Don’t overreact. I have it on good authority that his wounds were not fatal,” Aggie says calmly.

“Is he at the hospital, then?” Limey asks, getting to his feet.

“Yes. Don’t go rushing over there. You’re not—if you want to stay out of club business, you shouldn’t be one of the first responders.”

“Aggie, I can’t just—he’s _family_ —”

“Cas has seen worse than this, boy. He’s going to be fine. Sleep on it, and go visit him in the morning.”

Limey runs a hand through his hair and sighs heavily. “Dad—”

“I don’t know everything, because I’m still up at the cabin, but Bobby said that I should come down in the morning—we might be going to church. So if you want, you can catch Cas at the clubhouse,” Aggie says. “I called because I knew you’d want to know as soon as I did, but—don’t go right now.”

“You’re sure that he’s gonna be okay,” Limey says, slowly sitting back down on the bed. Rachel’s hand rests on his forearm, but he barely registers it.

“Yes,” Aggie says firmly. “Believe me—if it were fatal, I wouldn’t be calling you right now. I’d already be on my way to church to vote on retaliation.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yes. Good night, son.”

There’s a click on the other end, and Limey sets the phone back down on the nightstand. Rachel scoots closer, one hand reaching out to turn his face toward hers, but she says nothing, giving him time.

“Jimmy was in an accident,” Limey tells her. “I’m gonna go in and see Cas tomorrow, but I won’t get involved—you don’t have to worry.”

“I’m not,” Rachel says, her face the epitome of empathy.

“Thank you,” Limey says.

Rachel just shifts closer and wraps her arms around him.

* * *

Rufus is reading through a file sent in from the DA’s office in Stockton when the phone rings. He lets it ring twice before setting down the papers and picking it up. “Yeah.”

“Chief, this is Deputy Henriksen. I responded to a 911 call about forty minutes ago; it was a hit-and-run just outside of Morton-Novak.”

Rufus tenses, immediately wondering if one of the club members has been hit. He and Bobby are still due for some catching up with Johnnie Walker tomorrow night. “Details?” he manages.

“Well, I checked out the scene just before the paramedics arrived. Jimmy Novak was hit. Helpful as usual, the _mechanics_ who were closing up shop didn’t see anything,” Henriksen says pointedly.

“Who was on the scene?”

“Only Gabriel Spate and Aaron Bass,” Henriksen replies. “I don’t have anything to go on—no make or model, not even a color. Judging from the injuries I saw, I’d say it was a sedan, though.”

“Doesn’t narrow things down much,” Rufus says, thinking quickly. Gabriel is Gabe, but he doesn’t recognize Aaron Bass. Must be one of the prospects. “No one else was there?”

“Supposedly,” Henriksen says dryly.

“I’ll go to the hospital,” Rufus says, getting to his feet.

“I’ve already been. I spoke briefly with Cas Novak, and he didn’t know anything, either. But if you think you can get something else out of them, you’re more than welcome to try.”

Frowning at the deputy’s tone, Rufus asks, “What are you doing now?”

“I already doubled back to the scene of the ‘accident,’ but I found nothing suspect. Right now, I’m going to see Naomi. She needs to be notified that her son is in the hospital.”

“I can do that,” Rufus says.

“I’m already right outside her place,” Henriksen responds. “I just wanted to let you know.”

Rufus sighs. “Carry on, then, officer.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rufus places the phone back down on the receiver and heaves a sigh. Victor Henriksen is relatively new to the station, and Rufus likes the kid because he’s smart and steadfast in his morals, qualities that don’t quite describe Rufus anymore. Henriksen will grow to understand the role that the Reapers play in Morada, that there’s a balance to be maintained here.

Until then, well. Rufus will just have to show him, in the least bloody way possible.

* * *

Victor hangs up on the chief and gives himself a moment before getting out of the car, because it takes a little patience and a lot of self-control to deal with Naomi, and he knows she’s gonna be pissed off, with the news he’s about to bring her—he’s willing to bet that Cas convinced the rest of the club not to tell her, to save her the worry.

He already considered letting them have their way, but he’s technically only following police protocol, and if she _does_ know something, then catching her off-guard right now is his best shot at getting some information. Believe it or not, he _does_ want to execute justice on behalf of the club when something is done against them.

Besides, Victor thinks, despite the problems he’s had with Cas, he’s always liked Jimmy.

He marches up to the front door and knocks twice. He waits a few seconds before knocking again and putting his hands on his hips impatiently. The shutters flutter a little, and then the door swings inward to reveal Naomi, eyes hard.

“Deputy,” she says with an unfriendly smile, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I apologize for the late hour,” Victor says politely. “You may want to brace yourself for what I’m about to tell you.” Naomi only looks at him expectantly, and it seems like she really hasn’t heard. “Your son, Jimmy Novak, was hit by a car outside Morton-Novak about forty minutes ago.”

Naomi’s eyes widen fractionally, and her gaze intensifies, like she’s trying to lift the truth from his face by sheer force of will. “No,” she says, softly.

“He’s at St. David’s right now. I imagine he should be coming out of surgery soon,” Victor says.

A muscle twitches in Naomi’s jaw, and then she turns back and disappears into the house.

Victor dares to take a step forward, just past the doorframe. “If you know anything, I’d appreciate—”

“I don’t know _shit_ ,” Naomi spits, returning to the door with her purse and car keys in hand. “Now get out of my way—I’m going to see my son.”

“I can’t help you unless you help me,” Victor tries, but the way Naomi’s glaring at him, eyes just a little wild, hints that he won’t get anything useful out of her tonight. So he offers, “I’ll tell Amelia for you.”

“That won’t be necessary. I can talk to my own daughter,” Naomi says, looking over Victor’s shoulder.

And yeah, Victor can take a hint. He backs out of the doorway, and Naomi immediately steps outside, pulling the door closed behind herself. She shoves her key in the lock and turns it until there’s a click before heading toward her car. Victor watches the woman get into the car, pull out, and drive away down the street.

Frustrated, he heads back toward his own car to go back to the station.

* * *

Michael is leaning back on the couch, TV on but not really watching, when he hears a key sliding into the lock on the front door, two yards to his right. He frowns, because there’s no reason that Luce should be coming home right now, and just waits, one hand sliding behind his back and under his shirt to reach for the gun that’s tucked into the back of his jeans.

But when the door swings inward, he sees his niece stumble one step forward, still holding onto the key. Her eyes widen when she sees that the TV is on and spots him—the lights are off and the blinds drawn, so it makes sense that she didn’t notice from the outside.

“Mike,” she says, yanking the key from the doorknob and stepping inside fully. The heels of her boots clack against the tile in the entrance as she turns to shut the door behind her.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Michael says, removing his hand from behind his back and placing it back on his thigh.

“Oh, Dad didn’t tell you?”

Michael narrows his eyes at her. “No, he didn’t mention it.”

“Oh. Well, I was supposed to meet him at the clubhouse, but when I was on my way there, I saw a ton of police cars passing by, so I figured it’d be best not to go there, y’know?”

“So where did you go instead?”

“Well, I came here first,” Meg says, “but Dad wasn’t here, so I uh, went to the Roadhouse for a couple drinks, and to get something to eat.”

It sounds exactly like the sort of excuse Lucifer would take. He’d let his daughters get away with anything. It’s not a problem with Peggy, because good ol’ Peg is off getting her Master’s in Contemporary Russian Literature, or something similarly uninteresting, and the most she ever wants from Luce is a dinner whenever she’s in town.

Meg, on the other hand, just got patched in to the Amazons, an MC based in Stockton that’s led by a heinous bitch named Abaddon. They haven’t had any trouble from her and her club in some time, but that doesn’t mean Meg isn’t here on her orders.

“He’s still not here,” Michael says.

“Yeah, I figured. I only saw one bike outside. Guess I wasn’t looking all that closely—I thought it was his,” she says. “Where is he?”

“At the warehouse,” Michael answers. “You can call him back, if you’d like. I’ll go take his place.”

“Oh no, it’s fine,” Meg says, moving to sit down next to Michael on the couch. She gestures toward one of the unopened beer bottles on the coffee table and says, “You mind?”

“Not at all,” Michael says, inclining his head, so she takes one and twists the cap off.

“So,” Meg says after taking a drink and leaning back next to him, “you gonna tell me why the police were at the clubhouse?”

Michael side-eyes his niece as she takes another long drink. “Maybe. Why are you asking?”

Meg shrugs, going for casual. “I’m worried, that’s all. But if Dad’s at the warehouse, I guess he’s fine. Has someone been arrested?”

Chuckling, Michael says, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. Just some issues to be dealt with here in town. You can go ahead and tell Abaddon that we’re not planning to fight a war on her turf, so she’s got nothing to worry about.”

“What? I never—”

“Oh, don’t take me for an idiot, Meg. You smell a hell of a lot more like Abaddon’s perfume than you do a bar,” Michael says.

Meg scowls and folds her arms across her chest, her beer still dangling from one hand.

“If you were planning to stay the night here, you can go ahead. You won’t get anything else from me.”

“Yeah, okay,” Meg says, getting to her feet. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Michael responds as she walks past him.

“And thanks for the beer,” she adds before disappearing down the hall to the room she usually takes when she’s here.

Michael just shifts a little against the couch cushions and turns disinterested eyes back on the TV. He’ll bring this up with Jules tomorrow morning, see what he thinks. Abaddon shouldn’t be involved here, but they oughta be prepared just in case she is.

* * *

Amelia glances up at the clock and frowns. It’s already ten thirty, and Jimmy still isn’t home. She wonders what Jules called him for, and not for the first time, she wishes they could just _leave_. But Jimmy cares too much about his family, and Amelia can’t bring herself to leave Jimmy.

She gets to her feet, restless, and goes over to the sink to finally do the dishes—she and Claire already ate because they knew that Jimmy would be late tonight.

But before she’s even finished soaping up all the dishes, the doorbell rings. That’s strange, because Jimmy has keys. Who else would be coming to the house at this time? Frowning, Amelia rinses her hands off, and as she towels them dry, the doorbell goes off a few more times in quick succession.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming!” she calls, hurrying to open the door. She sucks in a surprised breath at the person on the other side—“Naomi.” Her mother-in-law smiles, tightlipped, but her eyes are solemn. “Oh, no,” Amelia says, heart sinking. “What’s happened?”

“I need you to remain calm,” Naomi says steadily. “Jimmy was hit by a car outside the shop.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, because surely— _surely_ —there’s been a mistake. Amelia has heard about other club members getting hurt, but Jimmy’s only a lawyer. Why would anyone want to hurt him? She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.

“Amelia? Hon, stay with me,” Naomi says, one hand coming out to grasp her arm.

Amelia nods. “Is he—is he okay? How—”

“I don’t know,” Naomi says. “The club didn’t want us to find out. I only heard because Deputy Henriksen was just at the house. He told me that Jimmy’s being operated on at St. David’s.”

Confirmation that her husband is indeed alive kicks Amelia’s mind back into gear, and she says, “We have to go, then.” Turning, she heads toward Claire’s bedroom, calling out, “Claire! Claire, baby, you have to get up! We’re going out!”

She finds Claire sitting up in bed, rubbing at her eyes. “Mama? What’s wrong?”

“Daddy was just in a car accident,” Amelia says.

“What?” Claire says, eyes wide.

“Don’t worry,” Amelia says, pulling her daughter out of bed and grabbing her jacket where it’s draped over a chair. “Here, put this on, and let’s go.”

“But—is Daddy okay?” Claire asks, following Amelia out of the room.

“Yes,” Amelia says, forcing her voice to remain even. “Yes, Daddy’s going to be fine. They’re just making sure at the hospital, okay?”

They put their shoes on and hurry out the door, and as Amelia buckles Claire into the backseat of Naomi’s car, she hopes that they won’t run into any cops, because Claire is seven and technically still needs to be in a car seat.

She climbs into the front passenger seat, and by the time she closes the door, Naomi already has the car started and is pulling away from the curb.

God, Jimmy has to be okay. Amelia doesn’t know what she’ll do if she loses him. How will she take care of Claire? She could go back to school, maybe work a job on the side, but she can’t afford to hire a babysitter on a long-term basis, and while Naomi would never turn Claire away, the last thing Amelia wants is for Claire to get closer to that motorcycle club.

A hand rests over her wrist, a warm thumb stroking over the back of her hand, and Amelia’s gaze drops to where Naomi’s slowly and steadily working her hand out of a fist. Amelia hadn’t even realized that she’d balled her hands.

“It’s all gonna be okay,” Naomi says, low and confident.

Speechless, Amelia just nods her head and looks out the window.

* * *

Aaron shifts uncomfortably in his seat. It’s been maybe an hour since he got here with Gabe, and still there’s been no news from the surgery room. Cas and Gabe are both quiet. Jules and Mike got here maybe ten minutes after Cas did, asking after Jimmy, but they hadn’t been able to tell them anything.

Mike’s been gone for a good half hour, now, but Jules is still here, leaning against the wall opposite the bench. Aaron had offered up his own seat, but Gabe had called him an idiot and told him to stay put.

The double doors open then, and some nurses wheel Jimmy out of the surgery room on a stretcher. Aaron jumps to his feet with Gabe and Cas, but when they try to follow the stretcher, the nurses tell them to stay behind.

“Oh, come on—” Cas starts, but a hand rests on his shoulder from behind, stopping him, and Aaron sees a man in doctor scrubs under a long, white coat—the surgeon, most likely.

“They’re just going to bring him to his room,” the doctor says. “You’ll be allowed to visit as soon as everything’s set up.”

Aaron sees a look of surprise in Cas’s face, sees hesitation as he turns away to look at the doctor, and when Aaron peeks at Jules and then Gabe, he sees wariness in their eyes. He’s new to the club, has only been around for two months, but he knows that that look in Jules’s eyes never means good news.

“How is he?” Cas finally asks.

“We had to do some surgery for liver trauma—that was probably the most dangerous part, and it went fine,” the doctor says. “Aside from that, there was fracturing in his left tibia and pelvis from the impact, and head trauma and two cracked ribs from the landing.”

Aaron can’t see Cas’s face, but he can see enough to know that Cas’s jaw is clenched tight.

“But he’ll live,” Cas says.

“Yes. It’ll be some time before he’ll be up and walking normally, but he will come out of this all right,” the doctor says sympathetically.

“All right,” Cas says. “Thank you, Winchester.”

A shuttered look crosses the doctor’s face, and he says, “Yeah. Just, doing my job.”

Cas nods once before turning back around, and this is a look Aaron has never seen on his face before, some strange mix of what looks like anger, grief, and maybe disbelief, but before Aaron can parse it, Cas is stalking past him, in the direction that the nurses took Jimmy. Jules follows a moment later.

“Thanks, Doc,” Gabe says, tone a little softer than Cas’s.

Dr. Winchester—Aaron can see the name tag, but that doesn’t explain the strange tone of Cas’s voice when he used the doctor’s last name—smiles. “I have other patients to check on. If you go back to the front desk, they’ll tell you which room Jimmy’s being taken to.”

With that, the doctor walks away.

Aaron wants to ask, but Gabe is already brushing past him to go after Jules and Cas, so Aaron just hurries to follow. When they find the sickroom, Cas and Jules are standing outside, no nurses in sight.

“I can’t stay here any longer,” Cas says as Aaron and Gabe approach. “Who’s up at the warehouse?”

“Luce, Bobby, and Alf,” Jules replies.

“I’ll go relieve one of them, then,” Cas says. “You should go home. Naomi’s gonna think it’s weird that you haven’t gotten back yet.”

“Why are we standing outside?” Gabe asks.

“They said that Jimmy was gonna be out for at least another hour or two, and I’m not—I can’t just sit here,” Cas says, hands twitching at his sides.

“Cas—” Jules starts.

“You don’t have to tell me to stay calm,” Cas hisses. “I _know_ that. If I didn’t know, do you really think I’d still be here? Someone might have tried to kill me tonight and almost killed my brother instead. So believe me, I’m calm, considering.”

There’s a tense silence, and then Jules steps forward and pulls Cas into a short hug, clapping him twice on the back. “All right, son. I trust you. Let’s go, then. Gabe and Bacon can look after Jimmy.”

“Yeah,” Gabe says. “I’ll call when he wakes up.”

Cas nods and lets Gabe hug him too. He flashes a small smile in Aaron’s direction before turning away to follow Jules down the hall.

“More waiting. Joy,” Aaron says.

“Shut up, bitch. Just be grateful you’re not out waiting in the cold. You could be where Alf is,” Gabe says.

“Good point,” Aaron concedes as they open the door to Jimmy’s sickroom and walk inside.

Gabe flicks the lights on and closes the door behind them, and Aaron looks at Jimmy, lying in the bed, heart monitor beeping quietly. Jimmy and Cas are technically identical twins, but their energies and personalities couldn’t be more different—they’re easy to tell apart for anyone who’s known them for a decent length of time. But God, the resemblance between them really is uncanny when their eyes are closed, and if someone told him that this was Cas, Aaron would totally believe it.

There are two chairs by the wall, so Aaron moves over and sits down in one of them. “Who was that doctor, earlier?” he asks.

Gabe looks at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you were all—”

“We were all what?”

“I’m not _stupid_ ,” Aaron says. “You guys knew him. I could see how tense you were. Did he have something to do with the club?”

Gabe sighs and takes the other chair, throwing an arm around Aaron’s shoulders. “Look, Bacon, what have I told you about asking questions?”

“Not to,” Aaron says, subdued.

“Exactly. So quit asking.”

* * *

Naomi parks the car haphazardly in front of St. David’s and hurries in, not bothering to wait for Amelia and Claire because they’ll find their way in just fine. The nurses know her already—it’s a small town, and Naomi’s not exactly a stranger to the hospital, anyway—and just point to their right.

“Make a left at the end of the hall,” one of them says.

Naomi nods in acknowledgement and says, “My daughter’s going to be here in a minute—point her in the same direction,” as she goes down the hall.

She’d only seen two bikes outside, and she knows that neither of them belong to Cas or Jules—what the fuck do they think they’re doing, keeping this sort of shit from her and then not even waiting at the hospital to take care of Jimmy? He may not be a member of the club, but that doesn’t make him a less important member of their family, and as soon as Naomi’s seen for sure that Jimmy’s fine—and he _will_ be fine, damn it—she’s going to give those two shitheads a piece of her mind.

At least it’s not the ER, Naomi realizes. If Jimmy isn’t in the ER, then he’s alive. She turns the corner and sees one door to her left and another to her right. The one to her left has its blinds drawn, but the one on the right—she peers inside in time to see Gabe mouthing, “Shit,” and frantically tugging his cell phone out of his pocket. One of the prospects is on his feet, looking uncertain and a little scared.

Naomi pushes the door open. “Where the hell are Jules and Cas?” she demands before she’s even fully in the room.

“Uh—” the prospect starts.

“They left maybe ten minutes ago,” Gabe says, his phone against his ear. “I can uh, well, I’m calling Cas. He should be at the warehouse by now.”

Naomi shoots an annoyed look in his direction and crosses the room to Jimmy’s bedside, sparing a quick glance at the heart monitor, beeping steady and reassuring. She places a hand on his shoulder, gently, and closes her eyes, relieved at the warmth under her touch. She’s lost enough people already, and she doesn’t think she’d be able to take losing either of her sons.

 _He’s fine, Charles_ , she thinks, willing the tears away. She’d never be able to face Charles if she let either one of the boys die before she did.

“Cas!” Gabe says into the phone. “Uh, Naomi just got here.”

“Give it here,” Naomi says, turning away from the sickbed and holding her hand out. Gabe doesn’t even hesitate before passing his phone over, and Naomi hears her son cursing on the other end. “What made you think you could keep this from me?” she says.

Cas sighs. “Mom, I didn’t want you to worry. Jules agreed—we just got to your house, and he’s inside, looking for you. You should talk to him. He wasn’t happy when he noticed that your car was gone.”

“Well, I’m worried anyway, so you might as well not have bothered. And Jules can stew for a while. He deserves it,” Naomi says.

“Mom—”

“It would’ve been better to hear it from family than to find out from a police officer,” Naomi cuts him off.

“Wait—what?”

“Deputy Henriksen dropped by the house to ask if I knew anything. _Obviously_ , I didn’t,” Naomi says shortly. She turns in time to see Amelia and Claire entering the room, so she gestures for Gabe and the prospect to get out.

“Look, I’m sorry. I just thought it’d be better not to call until we knew for sure that everything was fine,” Cas says. “I didn’t realize Henriksen would actually go to your house.”

“Well, you should have. He’s been trying to get something on the club for as long as he’s been back,” Naomi snaps. Seeing the reproachful look Amelia gives her from Jimmy’s bedside, Naomi nods and exits the room as well, joining Gabe and the prospect in the hallway.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Cas says. “Is Jimmy awake yet?”

“No. But Amelia and Claire are both here, right now. I can’t believe—Cas, what if Jimmy had died, tonight? You could have taken away his wife and daughter’s last chance to see him alive,” Naomi says.

“Would you just shut up already? I apologized. What more do you want?” Cas bites out.

Naomi shakes her head and says nothing, grip tightening on the phone, because she knows why Cas is lashing out. She knows her sons better than anyone, and of course Cas is already blaming himself for this—he blames himself for everything, when it comes to his twin. “Cas,” she starts.

“Sorry,” he says.

She sighs. “It’s okay, baby.”

A pause. Then, “No, Mom. It’s not.”

There’s a light click, and then nothing. Naomi takes the phone away from her ear and frowns down at it before passing it over to Gabe. He looks like he’s about to apologize, and really, that’s the last thing she wants right now. The prospect, thankfully, isn’t going to say anything, though it’s probably just because he’s terrified of her.

“Where’s the doctor?” Naomi asks.

“Oh, he already told us everything. We can—” Gabe offers.

“No, I’d really rather just see the doctor,” Naomi says.

Gabe swallows once, throat working, before saying, “Uh, well the surgeon on-call was Dr. Winchester.”

Oh, no, not _him_. Naomi is a pro at controlling her reactions, though, so she says, “I’ll ask the front desk where his office is, then.” She gives Gabe a light pat on the arm before passing by him. “Ask Amelia and Claire if they need anything, and then stay here—look after them.”

“Got it,” Gabe says.

* * *

The radiologist wasn’t in tonight, so Dean’s sitting in his office, going over the x-rays from Jimmy’s leg a second time and trying to estimate rate of recovery. There’s a knock on his open door, and he says, “Just a minute,” without looking up.

“Dean Winchester.”

Dean freezes, because _shit_ , he’d guessed that maybe he’d be dealing with her in the near future, but he hadn’t expected her to show up so soon. A quick glance up confirms that Cas’s mom is indeed standing in the doorway, leaning on the doorframe with her hands folded across her chest. Dean sets the x-rays down and nods at her expectantly.

When she says nothing, he says, “Hello, Naomi.”

She waits a moment longer before stepping inside his office and pushing the door closed behind her. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asks.

“I’m a surgeon. This is a hospital. What do you _think_ I’m doing here?”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Naomi says. “What are you doing back here in Morada?”

“I’m just doing my job,” Dean says.

“Last I heard, your job was treating you just fine in Chicago. So _why_ are you _here?_ ”

“What’s it got to do with you, anyway, huh? You’ve got no right asking about me. You gave that up years ago,” Dean says. Naomi gave up any sort of right to take care of Sam and Dean when she pressured him to join the club—Dean still remembers Dad telling him not to join the club, making him _promise_ , and god, there’d been so much blood and Dean had been unable to do a damn thing—

He turns away from the thoughts, and the guilt. He was eleven years old; there was no goddamn way he would have been able to do anything, anyway. It was already a miracle that the shooters didn’t find him stowed away in the back of the warehouse.

“I’m not asking because of you,” Naomi says pointedly.

Dean sighs. “I didn’t come back here to—to take Cas away from you, or whatever the hell you think I’m gonna do,” he says. “So you can go ahead and relax.”

“Does he know you’re back, yet?”

“I wasn’t gonna tell him,” Dean says. “I only saw him because Jimmy was brought in tonight.”

Naomi studies him for a moment, as though hoping to figure out whether or not he’s telling the truth just by looking at him. Finally, she says, “Just stay the hell away from Cas.”

And that, _that_ is not fucking fair. “I hadn’t intended on going outta my way to talk to him, anyway,” Dean says. “It’s not my fault Jimmy got hit by a car while I was on-call.”

Naomi’s eyes narrow dangerously, the way they always did when she considered violence, and while Dean knows he could take her, physically, he also knows that she’s probably carrying a gun in that purse of hers.

But Naomi chooses not to act on whatever violent impulse just ran through her head, turning instead to exit the room and walk away briskly.

Dean waits until her footsteps have faded entirely before letting out a tired sigh. He hates that woman so much, because she’s pretty much the whole reason why Dean had to leave Morada, wanted to get as far away from this town that he considered home as he possible could. He finally decided about two months ago that he was ready to come home, and he found a job here, but not even a week and a half in, she just has to show up and screw with his conviction.

God, he _already_ wants to fucking leave.

Seeing Jimmy on the operation table had been bad enough. He and Sam grew up with Cas and Jimmy, and Limey, come to think of it. Dean spares a moment to wonder whatever happened to the immigrant boy with the British accent that wouldn’t go away even after he’d spent more years in the States than he had in the UK.

But his mind soon swings back to Cas, and yeah, he’d braced himself for seeing Cas again as soon as he found out that Jimmy was his patient, but he’d somehow managed to forget how fucking _blue_ Cas’s eyes were. His hair had been a little longer than Dean was used to, and there’d been some stubble along his jaw, like he’d forgotten to shave in the morning or something. And Christ, Dean hadn’t ever seen Cas in a cut before—he left town as soon as he got into college and never looked back, and Cas hadn’t even started as a prospect at the time.

God, but he’d looked impressive and fucking _hot_ in that cut—which, yeah, growing up around the club may have left Dean with a few proclivities that he would never bring up in conversation outside of Morada. Actually, he doesn’t think he’ll ever mention it to anyone _in_ Morada, either.

Dean can’t help but wonder how Cas has been, how many scars he’s accumulated over the years. He’s steadfastly kept himself from asking, kept himself from looking out for any news from Morada, and he’d thought that he was ready to face Cas, but seeing him again in that hallway just brought everything back to the surface again.

He remembers fighting with Naomi, remembers Jules sitting stoically to the side, saying that this was not anyone’s choice but Dean’s. Remembers Naomi telling him that if he didn’t join the club, then he would be abandoning Cas, and how _dare_ he even _consider_ leaving Morada, leaving Cas? He’d been trapped, scared, terrified, and right after that disaster of a conversation with a woman he’d considered half a mother for most of his life, Dean had gone straight to Bobby’s, packed up his and Sam’s things, and moved to Aunt Ellen’s.

He remembers Cas finding him the next day, asking him why he’d left Bobby’s without saying anything. He remembers turning Cas away, telling him that they couldn’t be friends anymore. That he was getting the hell outta dodge as soon as he could, and if Cas knew what was best for him, he’d do the same.

It’s been… god, it’s been fifteen, sixteen years, yet when he saw Cas in that hallway, he saw the exact same muted look of loss, of—of _mourning_ , that he’d seen when they had their last real conversation.

Dean buries his face in his hands and exhales wearily.

* * *

“She’s at the hospital, I’m assuming,” Julian says, approaching Cas where he’s still standing by the bikes.

“Yes,” Cas confirms. “Furious, of course. She didn’t even want to talk to you.”

“I’d anticipated that,” Julian responds.

“Well, I should probably head up to the warehouse,” Cas says.

“There is no need. Bobby can handle it just fine,” Julian says. “Son, Jimmy was just hit by a car. Don’t you think you should be taking care of his family first?”

“Yeah,” Cas says after a pause. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll grab the truck, pick ‘em up from the hospital, maybe stay the night at their place, just to make sure they’re not actually targeting him.”

“That’s more like it,” Julian says.

Cas gets back on his bike and puts his helmet on. “Are you coming with me to see Naomi?”

Julian shakes his head. “Better to let her calm down and come to me,” he replies. He’s had enough dealings with Naomi, and he knows better than to approach her when she’s worked up.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”

“Yes,” Julian says.

Cas rides away, and Julian watches as his stepson rounds the corner and disappears from sight before turning to go back into the house.

He may not have grown up here in Morada, but he knows the town and its inhabitants rather well, and he is almost certain that Samuel Campbell would not have authorized such an ill-advised attack.

However, the description of the car given by Bacon seems to fit with the Campbells. Perhaps one of the third generation Campbells did this, perhaps as a ploy to win favor from Samuel. If that is the case, then the problem can be easily resolved, as long as Samuel is willing to give up the perpetrator. Julian doesn’t think he’ll demand death, as Jimmy is all right, but perhaps they’ll give him a shot to the leg.

He’ll put it up for a vote in the morning.

* * *

When Cas reaches the hall where Jimmy’s sickroom is, he sees Gabe and Bacon slumped in two chairs in the hallway. He snaps his fingers a few times in front of them to wake them up before gesturing for them to follow him. Walking over to the door, he knocks lightly before pushing it open. Amelia looks up at him, eyes tired, and when Cas’s gaze drops to her lap, he sees Jimmy’s trench coat, neatly folded.

Of course he’d been wearing the coat, Cas thinks, looking over at his twin’s face, partially obscured by an oxygen mask. Jimmy’s seldom left the house without that coat ever since Cas gave it to him for Christmas three years ago.

“Naomi already left,” Amelia says softly, and Cas notices that Claire is asleep, curled up in the chair that’s still against the wall—Amelia’s has been drawn over to Jimmy’s bedside.

“Yeah, I didn’t see her car outside,” Cas says. “I’m here to take you two home.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to—”

“Claire still has school tomorrow,” Cas points out. “And I’m assuming you still want to take her there, so you need to sleep.”

Amelia considers it for a moment. “But I can’t just leave him like this.”

“Gabe and Bacon will still be here,” Cas says. “They can look after him.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about us. We don’t have to sleep, or anything,” Gabe quips.

“Quit whining—you can take turns sleeping,” Cas says, stepping farther into the room and scooping Claire up into his arms.

“Thank you, then, boys,” Amelia says, standing and setting the folded coat on the edge of the sickbed.

Cas waits for Amelia to exit the room before following with Claire, and he hears the door swing closed behind him. They buckle Claire into the backseat, and Amelia rides next to her, because Cas doesn’t have a car seat for them to use.

They don’t speak on the ride back, a little too worn out by recent events to make small talk.

Cas doesn’t know whether he’s relieved or disappointed that he didn’t see Dean again at the hospital. He’d been so certain that they would never see each other again that he was utterly unprepared to hear his voice, to see his face, those green-gold eyes that he used to be allowed to see whenever he wanted.

He knows that Bobby kept in touch with Dean, and when Dean first left, Cas had asked Bobby about him now and then, just to see how he was doing. But after the first year, he’d gotten the hint—Dean never asked after him or the club, didn’t want anything to do with them anymore, and Cas stopped pumping Bobby for information. He’d told himself that it was because he was over it, and besides, it wasn’t as though Dean was a member of his family, anyway.

Except that he _was_. They’d been so important to each other, once.

Something changed in Dean when John Winchester died. Cas had noticed, even as a scrawny, ten-year-old brat. Dean had only been a year older than him, physically, but he’d seen something that day that aged him far more than Cas could have understood at the time. Sam and Dean had stayed with Bobby for five years, and Cas had thought that everything was okay. But then when Cas’s dad died, Sam and Dean split, moved to Ellen’s. No one would talk to him; no one would tell him why.

He knows now that Dean’s departure was inevitable, that their friendship was never gonna last. Seeing Dean again now doesn’t change a thing, and Cas does his best to put his thoughts to rest.

It doesn’t take long to reach Jimmy’s house, the streets quiet at this time of night, and Cas gets out to carry Claire inside. When Claire has been put to bed, Cas retrieves his bag containing a change of clothes and a few other essentials from the truck.

“Jules wants us to stay here, I take it,” Amelia says when he’s back inside and the front door locked.

“Just for tonight, to make sure this is really over,” Cas answers. “You should sleep, Amelia.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Amelia says quietly, going over to the couch and sitting down.

“He’s going to be fine, y’know.”

“Yeah, I know. _This_ time,” Amelia responds. Cas frowns at her as she continues, voice lowered, “But what about next time? What if the next time someone sees him and thinks he’s you, they pull a gun on him instead? What if he—” she breaks off, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth, and Cas sits down next to her, lifting one hand to rub her back.

“Amelia, you can’t think like that.”

“Why can’t I? Hmm? He’s my _husband_ , Cas. He’s—he’s a father. Claire and I can’t lose him, and the fact that he shares the face of a—it doesn’t help, Cas.”

“I’m sorry.”

“When he’s—when he’s gone, _sorry_ won’t be enough,” Amelia says.

Cas clenches his jaw but says nothing, pressing a quick kiss to Amelia’s temple before getting back up. He lifts his bag from the place where he’d dropped it and goes down the hallway to the guest room. Before he shuts the door, he thinks he hears Amelia crying, faintly.

Jimmy was never really fond of the life. He went to college, then to law school, and now he works at a law firm that Cas really has no interest in, except when it finds ways to keep club members alive and out of jail. But damn it, Jimmy was supposed to be _safe_ , here. No one touches anyone in this town without the Reapers’ say so. They’re gonna have a sit-down with Campbell tomorrow, and the driver’s gonna pay, but Cas doesn’t know whether or not that’s enough.

This _can’t_ happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Terms for non-SoA fans:**
> 
> chapel- meeting room inside the clubhouse (related: church- scheduled club meeting)  
> crank- methamphetamine  
> cut- jacket with the sleeves cut off, worn by MC members  
> MC- motorcycle club  
> patch in- to make someone a member of the club  
> prospect- a prospective member of the club that has not been patched in yet
> 
> Let me know if there is anything I might have missed.
> 
> Also, fun fact: I joined this site a year ago today! So this was sort of to mark my first year, here.


	2. What a Wonderful World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reapers MC confronts the Campbell family in the aftermath of Jimmy's "accident." Unbeknownst to the club, an ATF agent arrives in Morada. Meanwhile, Amazons MC enlists the help of the Demons to get more information about the Reaper-Campbell situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to get this written sooner, but it took a lot more effort than I expected, eeesh. So sorry about the delay, but it's possible that I'll only be updating this monthly because I've got a few other WIPs to be working on as well, and each chapter of this fic really takes a lot out of me.
> 
> But anyway, hope you like it!

Dean isn’t really willing to analyze why he leaves Jimmy for last when he goes on his morning rounds, but he doesn’t actually get to his sickroom until about seven thirty. There’s no reason to be worried—it’s been nine, almost ten hours since the surgery, which was a success, and Jimmy’s been stable since, according to the nurses who made their rounds earlier this morning.

Still, he has to double check himself, just to make sure everything’s okay.

There are two light knocks on the open door to the sickroom, jolting Dean out of his thoughts—he hadn’t even realized that he was staring blankly at the heart monitor.

“Heya, Doc,” a warm, rough voice says. Dean turns to see Cas in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms folded across his chest. It’s relatively dim in the room, and the light from the hallway glances off his shoulders and frames his head, making him look more like an angel than a reaper. “How’s he doing?”

“Still hasn’t woken up, yet,” Dean answers, pulling his eyes away. “Steady, though. He should be awake by the end of the day—if not, we’ll have something to worry about.”

“Fuck,” Cas mutters, and his voice sounds closer. Dean isn’t even surprised that he couldn’t hear Cas’s footsteps—leave it to Cas to still move completely silently, even in heavy biker boots.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Dean says, licking his lips and looking down at Jimmy. He’s belatedly surprised that there wasn’t a Reaper here to stand guard over him, but maybe Cas called the guys off because he was coming here himself.

“If you say so,” Cas says.

Dean looks up at him and finds Cas looking right back, an unreadable expression on his face. “How uh, how are you?” he asks hesitantly.

“Do you really wanna know?” Cas asks, looking away.

“Yeah.”

Cas huffs, a humorless smile stretching his lips. “I’ve been staying out of trouble,” he responds glibly, moving over to the other side of the sickbed and looking down at his twin brother, and Dean can see dark circles under his eyes, lines on his forehead that make him look older than his thirty-two years. It can’t have been easy, being in the club for so long.

Dean wonders whether or not—or rather, how many times—Cas has been put in jail. He decidedly doesn’t think about how many times Cas has probably gotten away with something he should’ve been sent to jail for.

“I doubt that,” Dean manages to say, and Cas actually smiles a little, but he’s still not looking at Dean.

“Yeah well, I’m staying out of _big_ trouble,” he corrects himself. After a pause, he says, “I’m… sorry about my uh… about last night. I was stressed, and I never thought I’d—” he stops himself there, but Dean can hear the rest of his sentence anyway— _I never thought I’d see you again_.

“Hey, it’s fine,” Dean says, trying to play it off. “I’ve dealt with patients’ families that were screaming and raving. You were actually quite polite.”

Cas nods once, eyes on his twin, and Dean tries to think of something to say, but he’s got nothing. Nothing that Cas would be willing to hear, anyway. _I’m sorry for running away without telling you. I’m sorry for leaving you just like that. I was your best friend, and I let you down. I never should have kicked you out of my life._

_I want you back in my life._

Yeah. _That_ would go over well.

“I’m just gonna finish up my rounds,” Dean says at last. “I’ll leave you alone, now.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Doc,” Cas says, grabbing a chair and sitting down by the bed.

Dean exits the room, closing the door behind him.

Everyone told him that Jimmy had been injured in a car accident, but if it had only been an accident, there wouldn’t have been club members sleeping in his sickroom to look after him. No—whatever happened to Jimmy, it wasn’t an accident, and it was related to the Reapers.

But it’s none of his business, Dean reminds himself. His only concern is to keep Jimmy alive. The Reapers have nothing to do with him now, and that’s for the best.

He passes by the large glass panels set by the front entrance to the hospital, and he can see Cas’s bike parked outside, a few spaces away from the Impala. And maybe it makes him a bad person, but he can’t help but feel relieved that the younger Novak twin is the one that got put in the hospital.

* * *

Sitting in the chapel for privacy, Michael leans back in his seat and waits for Samuel Campbell to pick up the phone. It takes three rings.

“Hello?” he says gruffly.

“Hello, Samuel. This is Michael Milton. Do I need to explain why I’m calling?”

“No,” the Campbell patriarch answers. “I assume you’d like to meet.”

“Yes.”

“Do you already have a time and place in mind?”

“We’ve chosen the place—there’s a turnoff, a few miles south of Morada city limits. Do you know it?”

“I do,” Samuel answers. “And I assume that I can choose the time. Would one o’clock be all right?”

“That’s fine,” Michael says. “We’ll be there.”

He hangs up then and goes to the door, pulling it open. Gabe and Jules are sitting at the bar, and when the door opens, they both look in his direction. Jules tilts his head and squints a little in question. Michael nods, so Jules gets up and crosses the room toward the chapel.

“When did you get in?” Michael asks Gabe, frowning.

“A while ago,” Gabe replies. “Cas called, told us he was gonna go to the hospital, so we could clear out. I brought Bacon back with me, told him to take a nap in the office.”

Jules has reached the door by then, so Michael backs into the chapel, and when they’re both inside, Jules shuts the door.

“He knew we were gonna ask for a meet, agreed to the place, and asked for it to be at one,” Michael reports as Jules walks along the long table to take his seat at the head.

“All right, then.”

After a pause, Michael says, “There is one other thing. Last night, Meg came into the house, expecting to find Luce. She had questions about Jimmy.”

“Did she have plans with Luce last night?” Jules asks.

Michael shrugs. “She told me that she did. But I wouldn’t be surprised if her arrival had to do with Abaddon, trying to keep tabs on us.”

“Abaddon is a very shrewd woman,” Jules says, steepling his fingers. “I highly doubt her people had anything to do with the attack—it’s unlike the Amazons, hitting a man with a car.”

“I agree,” Michael says.

It’s quiet for a moment, and then Jules says, “Call the others. We need to go to church before the meet. I expect them to be here within the hour.”

“Got it,” Michael says, getting to his feet and leaving the chapel.

“Time for church?” Gabe asks, standing.

“Not yet. Give Cas a call—tell him to come to the clubhouse. I’ll get the guys at the warehouse to come back,” Michael says as he walks along the back wall of the clubhouse.

“Yeah, okay,” Gabe says after him.

Michael waits until he’s in one of the back rooms before calling his brother.

“Hey, Mike,” Luce says, and then he yawns audibly. “Is it about time for church?”

“Yeah, you guys can come on down,” Michael says.

“Great.”

“Before you hang up,” Michael says quickly, “I wanted to let you know that Meg came by the house last night, looking for you. She’s probably still there right now, sleeping.”

“Shit, I’d almost forgotten about her,” Luce says. “I’ll make it up to her tonight.”

“I don’t think she had anything to do with the attack on Jimmy, but I gotta admit, it isn’t a good sign, her showing up so soon after it happened.”

Luce is silent for a moment, and then he says, “We had plans already, though.”

“Jules and I both agree that the Amazons probably aren’t involved, but that doesn’t mean they’re not trying to monitor the situation. Just—be careful what you tell her, when you see her.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

It sounds like Luce is getting ready to hang up, so Michael asks, “Did Bobby already tell Aggie that there’d be church today?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you in a few,” Luce answers.

The call disconnects then, and Michael shoves his phone back into his pocket before heading back out to the main room. He really shouldn’t be surprised to see Limey standing just inside the entrance, looking uncomfortable and maybe a little wistful.

“Limey!” he says, putting a smile on his face as he approaches.

Limey smiles back, but it’s clear he’s not happy about their situation. “Hi, Mike,” he answers.

“It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah,” Limey says. “I uh, just saw Gabe outside. He said Cas is gonna be here soon…?”

Michael nods. “Have you talked to Jules yet?”

“Mm, don’t think I really need to,” Limey says, looking in the direction of the bar. “I’ll just help myself to a drink, if that’s all right.”

“Nonalcoholic, I hope,” Michael says, watching as Limey crosses the room.

“Yeah, definitely,” he replies. “I’ve still gotta go to work after this.”

“Oh, right. The lumberyard, still? How’s that treating you?”

“It’s—fine.”

Limey goes behind the bar to find a drink, and Michael takes a moment to just watch him. Michael and Lucifer joined as prospects almost thirty years ago, and it’s crazy to think that Limey hadn’t even been six years old, yet.

And Cas, Cas had been maybe three years old, steady on his feet and so, so precious. He’d followed Dean around everywhere, and Limey had always stayed close, keeping an eye on them. As prospects, it had fallen to Michael and Lucifer to look after the kids. They’d been so sure that Dean would become VP when it was his time, but…

Well. It’s all in the past, and there’s no point bringing it up now.

“Pour me a little of whatever you’re drinking,” Michael says, going over to the bar and taking a seat on one of the stools.

“Coming right up,” Limey says, smiling.

* * *

Crowley steps out of his car, briefcase in hand, and presses the door closed, looking up at the building in front of him as he does. Morada Police Department, it says on the front of the building, above the entrance. It looks just about as shabby as he’d expected it to.

Charming.

He keeps his sunglasses on even after he enters the building because it’s fun to make people guess what he’s looking at. And because other people have to work harder to tell whether or not he’s being truthful. This entire line of work depends on being able to tell a good lie, an impossible lie, and make people believe it.

A few police officers are sitting in cubicles, and they look up at him as he passes them by—he’ll need a proper office for his temporary base.

“Can I help you?” one of the officers says just as Crowley’s clearing the room and heading for the door that’s labeled with _Chief of Police: Rufus Turner_.

“Oh, no thank you, darling. I have some matters to discuss with your police chief,” Crowley replies before knocking on the door.

“But who are you?” the officer asks, getting to his feet.

“Don’t worry. I mean you no harm.”

The door swings inward, and Crowley has to look slightly upward to meet the eyes of the dark-skinned man who stands in the doorway, frowning impressively.

“Hello,” Crowley says with a quick smile, extending his hand. “My name is Crowley, and I’m with the ATF. I’ll be setting up camp in your station for a period of time, and your cooperation, while not mandated, would be highly appreciated.”

Turner looks down at Crowley’s hand, a flash of distrust in his eyes, before shaking it. “Rufus Turner, Chief of the Morada Police,” he says. “What do you need from us?”

“At present, just an office,” Crowley says, hefting his briefcase pointedly. “I wouldn’t want to take your office, but it doesn’t seem you have many other options in this building.”

“We have another office,” Turner says. “Just come with me.”

Crowley backs up a step to let Turner out of his office, and he takes him down the hall, rapping on the door to another office. This one says _Deputy Chief_ , but it has no name.

“Henriksen!” Turner calls out, tapping his knuckles on the wood again.

“Over here,” a man responds from the entrance to the station—it’s clear he just returned. He comes down the hall, curious eyes fixed on Crowley, and hmm, perhaps he’ll be useful.

“This is Crowley,” Turner says to the deputy. “He’s here, working a case for the ATF. He’ll be using your office for… however long he’s here.”

Turning to Crowley, the deputy extends a hand and says, “Victor Henriksen, Deputy Chief.”

“Nice to meet you,” Crowley says.

There’s a brief silence, slightly awkward, and then Henriksen presses past the chief and opens the door to his office. “I’ll straighten things up a bit, if you don’t mind,” he says.

“Oh, take your time,” Crowley responds, following him into the room.

Henriksen bustles around his desk, clearing papers and shoving them into drawers, and Crowley takes a seat at the chair in front of the desk. Belatedly, he notices that Chief Turner is still lingering in the doorway, so he casts an expectant look in his direction.

“What were you planning to find here?” Turner asks a moment later.

“Well, you know what department I’m from. I’m sure you know exactly why I’m here,” Crowley responds. “Then again, I’ve heard that Reapers MC has all sorts of connections within the local police force, so if you’re obligated to play dumb, I completely understand.” Turner bristles at this, but Crowley just goes on, not giving him a chance to speak, “I just hope you understand that not everything can be swept under the rug—something will slip out, and when it does, I’ll be there to catch it.”

“I don’t know what you take me for, but I am a law enforcement officer,” Turner says, and the vein at his temple is pulsing quickly, but Crowley has to give him points for keeping his voice low and controlled.

“I never said that you weren’t,” Crowley answers lightly, smiling.

Turner just frowns at him again before taking his leave, pulling the door closed behind him. Crowley looks at the closed door for maybe a minute longer, waiting for the deputy to speak, because he’s good at reading people, and he can practically _smell_ the discontent that’s radiating from the deputy concerning his superior.

Just as Crowley’s starting to think that he may have read the situation incorrectly, Henriksen says, “I don’t know what kind of a deal he’s cut with the MC, but I’m not a part of it.”

“What, you mean your commanding officer is in cahoots with the gunrunners?” Crowley asks, false surprise in his voice. “I said what I said in hopes of getting a rise out of him, but I wasn’t certain he was the problem in the local police.”

“I have no proof,” Henriksen says, pausing in his work to look at Crowley, “but I know that he… has a soft spot for them, for reasons unknown to me.”

“But you don’t,” Crowley says.

“Not one bit. They constantly flout the law, and they need to be punished for it. I am willing to help you find the proof you need to shut down the gunrunning business, if you’ll include me in your operation.”

Crowley smiles. “Most reassuring,” he says. “I shall definitely keep you in mind, should I need your assistance. Thank you, Deputy.”

“I just want to make Morada safer.”

“And I just want to put some criminals off the street, so you and I want the same things.”

Henriksen smiles and goes back to clearing the surface of his desk. Yes, this man could prove to be very useful indeed.

* * *

When Cas pulls into the lot in front of the shop, he sees that nearly everyone’s here—the only missing bike is Aggie’s. And Limey’s, of course, but Limey’s bike has been gone for over five years, and Cas probably won’t be seeing it anytime soon.

He gets off his bike and heads toward the shop first, where he finds Alf with Gabe, working on a car. “Where’s Bacon?”

“Sleeping in the office,” Gabe answers, sliding out from under the car. “Need him for anything?”

“Yeah, he’s gotta get his ass up to look after the shop. You and I are going to church as soon as everyone’s here, and I’m sending Alf to the hospital to keep an eye on Jimmy.”

“I’m going where?” Alf asks, straightening.

“Hospital, knucklehead,” Gabe says as he gets to his feet and goes toward the office. “I’ll wake Bacon.”

Cas turns and heads back out to the lot, crossing it to go to the clubhouse. At the door, he pauses and watches Alf take off on his bike. The prospect has been here for a while, and maybe it’s about time he was patched in… but Cas should probably wait ‘til they’ve got this thing with the Campbells sorted out before he brings it up in church.

Next time, he thinks, pushing his way into the clubhouse.

“Cas, brother,” Limey says, and Cas’s eyes are instantly drawn toward the bar.

“You’re here,” Cas responds, surprised. Surely this is just an apparition, because Limey hasn’t been in this room for far too long, and it almost seems incongruous for him to be walking around the bar to come to Cas, moving through the place as though nothing’s changed.

“Of course I’m here. I heard what happened to Jimmy.” Limey crosses the room to the door, where Cas is still standing, and leans in for a quick hug. “Anything I can do?” he asks as he backs up.

“No,” Cas says, shaking his head. “You should probably stay clear of it all. For Rachel.” Frowning, he asks, “Does she even know you’re here?”

“Yes. I told her I’d be stopping by today before work,” Limey replies. After a pause, he says, “I wanted to go to the hospital last night—Aggie called me with the news, but he convinced me not to go, and I—”

“It’s all right,” Cas says, because as much as he’d love to have Limey back around, he knows how important Rachel is to him, and he could never be that selfish. “You’re here, now. That’s what matters.”

Limey nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Listen, Cas,” he says, “I may have hung up the cut for now, but you know you can still count on me, right?”

“Of course.”

Limey smiles lightly. “All right. I’m just glad he’s okay.”

“Yeah, me too,” Cas says. Then he looks around the otherwise empty room and asks, “Are all the others in the chapel already?”

“Yes,” Limey confirms. “And I’ve gotta go to work, so I’ll talk to you later. I’ll go to the hospital to see Jimmy, probably after work today.”

Cas nods. “I think he’d like that.”

Limey goes past Cas and out the door, and Cas turns toward the chapel.

* * *

Sam takes his hands off the keyboard and leans back in his seat, frowning at the screen. He’s writing a summary of the current case he’s being removed from, so that his replacement will know where to pick up. When he finishes, he’ll get to go home for the day. And then, starting tomorrow, he’ll be sent out into the field.

Sam likes field work, likes being a consultant for agents that are putting together a case. But this particular assignment is a little different because he was chosen specifically because he came from Morada and could potentially have useful connections for the case. Apparently, the ATF agent that he’ll be assisting handpicked him from a stack of profiles that were provided for his perusal. He’ll be meeting the guy in Morada tomorrow morning around eleven o’clock.

It’s probably going to be a bit weird, returning to Morada like this, going up against the people he used to think of as part of his family, people who watched him grow up, but… well, they’ve been operating against the law for years, and as an Assistant District Attorney, it’s his job to put them away.

So yeah, Sam could have turned this assignment down and asked the DA to pass it on to someone else, but he accepted it because it was the right thing to do.

A coffee appears on his desk as he turns his focus back on his computer, intent on continuing his work, and he says, “Thank you, Sarah.”

“Who’s Sarah?”

Sam’s gaze jerks away from the computer, and sure enough, Ruby is standing in front of his desk, grinning down at him. Sam can’t help but smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says.

“Well, I was in the neighborhood, and you left in such a rush this morning that you didn’t even finish your coffee. Starbucks is way overpriced by the way, so you’d better thank me for this later.”

“Of course,” Sam says, half-standing to meet Ruby in a quick kiss. He sits back down and picks up the cup of coffee, taking a sip.

“So, you’re not busy tonight, right?” Ruby says.

“Not at all.”

“Okay, good. I was thinking about eating out at this new place—a friend of mine recommended it.”

“Oh god, if it was Tammi, I’d rather not,” Sam says. The last place Tammi recommended to Ruby was this seafood place that was supposedly really good, except that he’d ended up getting food poisoning, which was definitely not fun.

“Different friend. And come on, last time was just bad luck,” Ruby says. “Besides, you suck at cooking, and I suck at cooking, and if I have to eat another sucky meal tonight, I might shoot myself. So we’re going out for dinner tonight, okay?”

“You make it sound like I’ve got a choice,” Sam says wryly.

Ruby’s phone goes off then, and she pulls it out. “Oh,” she says, frowning. “I’m gonna have to take this.”

“No worries,” Sam says. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Mhmm. Love you,” Ruby says before turning away and lifting the phone to her ear.

Sam watches her leave the office before taking another sip of his coffee and getting back to work.

* * *

As Aggie gets off his bike, he spots his stepson walking out of the clubhouse. Smiling, he moves toward Limey, opening his arms in welcome.

Limey returns the hug when they reach each other, and as he’s backing up, he says, “Pretty sure they’re all waiting on you. Cas just went in.”

“Yeah, I got it,” Aggie says, shoving down the mixture of confused emotions at the reminder that Limey no longer has a seat at the table. On the one hand, he’s grateful that Limey was able to pull away from the club and make a life for himself and his family, but on the other, he just plain _misses_ the boy, and without the club to hold them together, they rarely see each other outside of holidays.

“Well, I’ve gotta get to work,” Limey says then, walking toward the street.

“Have a good day,” Aggie says before going to the clubhouse.

He enters the chapel less than a minute later, and sure enough, everyone else has already arrived. He takes his seat at the far end of the table, and Jules leans forward in his seat.

“We all know why we’re here. Jimmy got hit by a car last night, and we’re pretty sure the driver was one of the Campbells,” Jules starts off. “We have a meet with the Campbells this afternoon at one o’clock, to give them a chance to explain. Now, I see two ways this is going to play out. First, Samuel could cooperate and hand over the driver that hit Jimmy.”

“He’d never do that,” Luce says.

“Unless the driver was acting of his own will, and Samuel felt he deserved punishment anyway,” Bobby says matter-of-factly. He’s right, of course—Aggie knows Samuel, knows that he would put the good of the family as a whole over the good of a single family member.

“The second possibility is that Samuel will refuse to tell us, or deny that his family was involved. We have Bacon as an eyewitness, but he only saw the car and not the driver,” Jules says.

“I could take him by the Campbells’ houses, see if he can spot the car by one of them,” Mike suggests.

“What if they’ve already gotten rid of the car by then?” Luce asks. “We can’t let them off the hook just because we don’t find the car.”

“With any luck, we won’t even have to worry about that,” Bobby says. “Samuel is sensible. He wouldn’t deny involvement if his family was involved—I’m sure he’s already guessed that one of their cars was sighted outside the shop, or that we have some other form of proof. We wouldn’t go after him without _something_ to back us up, and he knows that.”

“Oh, you’re that sure,” Luce says, frowning.

“We know his character,” Aggie says. “He may not be our friend, but he still has some principles. I agree with Bobby—it is unlikely that he’ll try to deny everything.”

“What do you think, Cas?” Jules asks.

“I think we should be prepared for any scenario,” Cas says. “If Samuel gives up the driver, we’ll punish him. If not, hopefully Mike and Bacon will be able to identify the driver anyway. But if they can’t… then the Campbells hid the car, which means that they’ve probably put some thought into this. And if that’s true, we’ve got problems.”

It makes sense. If the Campbells planned to kill one of the Reapers, then they must have someone helping them. One of the other MCs in the area, perhaps. Aggie looks around the table as the others consider this, and then he sighs lightly. He’d hoped that he could have a few years of peace, but it just isn’t meant to be.

“All right, what we need to decide just for now is how we’re going to punish the driver,” Jules says. “If Samuel gives him up, then we’re probably worrying over nothing, some kid’s bad judgment. So save your energy for when we know that something’s coming. I propose that if Samuel cooperates, we’ll let the driver live. If not, we’ll kill him.” Jules pauses a moment before starting the vote with, “Yea.”

“Nay,” Luce says.

“Yea,” Mike says, and Aggie, Gabe, and Bobby echo him. Cas finishes them off with one last _yea_ , and Jules calls it, six to one, before striking the gavel.

“Be ready at one, boys,” he says before getting to his feet. He leads Luce out of the room, probably to speak with him about being the only _no_ vote.

The others start getting to their feet, and Aggie goes to stop Cas before he can leave. “I think I’ll stay behind, look after the shop,” he offers.

“Yeah, we shouldn’t need full attendance at this meet, anyway,” Cas says. “Gabe?” he calls out before Gabriel can leave the room. “Stay at the shop with Aggie.”

“You got it,” Gabe says, exiting the chapel.

Aggie follows close behind him, but he waits until they’re outside the clubhouse to speak. “You don’t have to hold your tongue when you’re at the table, Gabe. You earned your spot there.”

“Oh. I know,” Gabe says. “You guys said everything already, so I didn’t really have anything to add.”

“If you say so,” Aggie says doubtfully.

Gabe is one of the youngest at the table—only two years older than Cas—and while he’s talkative outside, he’s very quiet inside the chapel. It’s worrying, since members of the club have always been able to talk to each other about anything. Aggie had thought Gabe’s reticence would wear off with time, but it’s been eight years since he was patched in, and he’s still as quiet as before, only giving an opinion when asked directly.

But Aggie can’t exactly _force_ the boy to speak, so he just follows him into the shop and takes a look at the cars that need work.

* * *

Azazel is good at reading people—brilliant at it, in fact—but in all the years that he’s been on the streets, he’s never quite known what to expect from Abaddon. It’s impressive enough that she runs an MC entirely made up of female members, yet still she manages to surprise him. She didn’t say what their meet was supposed to be about today, but Azazel surmises that it can’t be anything good.

“They’re here,” Ava says from his right.

Azazel just nods and gets to his feet, slapping a smile on his face as three bikes ride into the lot. “Abaddon,” he says.

“Hello, Azazel,” she replies as she takes off her helmet and gets off her bike.

“Where’s my mom?” Ruby asks, frowning.

“Lilith is working a transaction with some new customers,” Azazel answers.

“Shouldn’t you be there too, then?” Abaddon asks.

“I respect our relationship,” Azazel says. “When you say that something is important and requires my attention, I trust you.”

“I’m glad.”

No one speaks for a moment, and Azazel looks back and forth between the three Amazons present. Bela is their second-in-command, and Ruby is a mouthy bitch, but Abaddon remains the one who does most of the talking. So he focuses his attention on her when he asks, “What’s this about?”

“The Campbell family has made a move on the Reapers,” Abaddon informs him. “I wanted to know whether or not you’ve heard anything from any of your customers.”

“Not a word,” Azazel replies truthfully. “I don’t typically need much information on the Campbells because they operate in Lodi—our client pool doesn’t exactly overlap a lot. But… were there any casualties on either side? Have they retaliated?”

“I’m still waiting to learn how the Reapers are handling the situation, but I have it on good authority that none of the Reapers are dead, or we’d have heard about it already.”

“Hmm, so one or more of them are in the hospital right now,” Azazel guesses. “Well, if we want to find out anything about the Campbells, it’d make the most sense to go through the Leviathans, since they operate in Lodi.”

“Do you have any connection to them? I’d rather not meet with Dick if I can—if we set up a meet without inviting Jules, it would look too much like we were trying to shut them out,” Abaddon says.

That’d be bad for both the Demons and the Amazons, because they get the majority of their guns from the Reapers. So Azazel says, “I may have a way in with the Leviathans.”

“Really?” Abaddon says, eyebrows raised. “Would you be going yourself?”

“No, I wouldn’t be—don’t worry. The wife of one of the Lafitte twins is close friends with Dick’s old lady, Susan. If anything’s going on between Leviathans MC and the Campbell family, Susan will probably know at least a little about it.”

Abaddon looks outright skeptical now. “And you can get this wife to work for you,” she says.

“As you know, I used to run an orphanage,” Azazel says. “It just so happens that one of my children married into the ‘Nines.”

Lenore had always been a sweet, caring girl at the orphanage, helping Azazel with the younger kids when the others her age—Jake, Ava, and Andy—were still goofing around. When she came to him with news of Eli’s proposal, he’d almost been sorry to see her go.

“She’s like a daughter to me,” he says to Abaddon. “If I ask her for a favor, she won’t deny me.”

After a pause, Abaddon says, “I hope your faith in her isn’t misplaced.”

“It isn’t,” Azazel says confidently. “I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

“I’ll be waiting for the good news, then,” Abaddon responds. “C’mon, girls.”

The three women get onto their motorcycles and ride out of the lot.

“When should we talk to Lenore?” Jake asks.

“Or are you planning to talk to her yourself?” Ava adds.

“I’d like the two of you to go,” Azazel decides, stepping forward and turning around to face his children. “Give her a call, but start driving out to Oakland now. Let her know that I’d like to know anything she can find out, as soon as possible.”

“Got it,” Jake says, going toward his car. Ava follows, and Azazel stays in place, watching until they’ve pulled out of the lot before starting toward his own car.

They’d better get that information, and fast. If a storm’s coming, the Demons are going to be prepared.

* * *

Normally, when the Reapers travel anywhere, they prefer to go on their bikes—obviously, since they’re an MC. But today, Aaron sits in the passenger seat, looking intently out the window as Mike takes him around to the Campbell houses. The meet is going to be starting any minute now, which means most of the Campbell family should be heading out.

“All right, this is Ed Campbell’s house. He lives here with Christian and Gwen,” Mike says, pulling up to the curb and pointing at the house across the street from them. “Recognize any of the cars?”

“No,” Aaron answers. “Do you think they’ve got any cars in the garage?”

Mike eyes him for a moment. “You’re kidding me, right?” But Aaron doesn’t catch on, doesn’t know what Mike is talking about, so he goes on, “They’re dealers, Bacon. Where do you think they cook their crank, hmm?”

“ _Oh_.”

“Yeah. Oh. If it’s not in this garage, it’s probably in another one. I’d go poking around, but we had an agreement about this. We don’t touch their drugs, and they don’t touch our guns.”

Aaron just nods, because this much he does know. He’d just always assumed that the actual drug-making process took place somewhere else. Then again, it sorta makes sense to do it at home, where it’s less likely for some stranger to stumble across it by accident.

“So none of these cars, right?” Mike asks.

Aaron casts a quick eye over at the cars in front of the house across the street, just to be sure, before replying, “No, none of these ones.”

“On to the next house, then.”

As they make a left at the end of the street, Aaron asks, “When we find out where the car is parked, do you think Jules will actually use the information?”

“If he has to, he will. But I doubt it,” Mike replies. “We’re pretty sure Samuel’s ready to give up the driver. We’re only doing this just in case.” They pull up in front of a house two blocks down, and Mike asks, “How ‘bout these cars? There’s a red one over there.”

Aaron follows the direction that Mike is pointing in, and sure enough, that looks like the right car. “I think it’s the one,” he says. “There should be the Campbell crest on the right side—should I get out and check for it?”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Mike says, pulling out his cell phone. “It’s behind a fence, and the last thing we need is to get busted on trespassing charges for something bogus like this.”

“Whose house is this?” Aaron asks as Mike types out a message.

“It’s Robert’s. He lives here with two sons, Mark and Johnny. I’m pretty sure one of them was the culprit, because Robert’s been around a while, and he knows better than to disrupt the balance of things.”

“Oh,” Aaron says as Mike stows his phone. “Okay, so what now?”

“Now, we drive out to a place close to the meet so we can back ‘em up, if anything goes wrong,” Mike says, turning his key in the ignition and putting the car into drive.

* * *

Jules announces that he’s only taking three guys with him to the meet, since Mike and Bacon have to check on the cars, and Gabe and Aggie are looking after the shop. Alf’s at the hospital, keeping an eye on Jimmy. Luce thinks it probably would’ve been better to just close down the shop and bring more people to the meet, but Jules doesn’t seem to think there’ll be a need for violence.

There’s _always_ a need for violence.

But Jules is calling the shots, and as Sergeant-at-Arms, the biggest concern of Luce’s is keeping the president alive. Anything else is secondary, even revenge for a brother—well, sort-of-brother. Brother of a brother.

They round a bend in the road, and a few miles later, Jules and Cas turn off onto a dirt road, following it down a slight hill to a turnoff, where two cars are already waiting. One’s a sedan, but the other is a van, and Luce doesn’t like that—vans are great for hiding large weaponry. And transporting bodies.

He parks his bike next to Jules’s and hops off, pulling off his helmet as he does.

Four Campbells are standing by the cars, waiting as the Reapers come toward them. Luce recognizes Samuel and Robert, of course—he’s pretty sure Robert was only a year or two below him in school. The two younger guys, probably in their twenties, he does not recognize. They all look surprised, the younger guys more than Samuel and Robert, but Luce has no clue what is so surprising to them—maybe it’s just the fact that only four Reapers came?

“Hello, Samuel,” Jules is saying.

“Jules,” Samuel returns, recovering quickly. “I’m sorry about what happened to your son. I assure you, it was not by my orders. I know the pain of losing a child, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone else.”

That’d be a nice sentiment if Samuel weren’t cooking and selling crank. Luce can’t even count how many deaths he’s heard of that were caused by overdoses.

“Not by your orders, hmm?” Jules says. “Forgive me, but that is hard to believe.”

“You’d better believe it, because it’s the truth,” Samuel replies. “Believe it or not, I don’t have absolute control over my family members.”

“Prove it, then,” Luce says. He means to go on and demand that Samuel reveal the culprit, but Bobby’s hand lands on his upper arm, stopping him.

“You’ll understand, then, if I ask for the man responsible,” Jules says calmly, and Luce has to admit that having Jules make the request seems much more effective. Still, violence and anger have seldom failed him in the past, and he’ll stand by them any day.

“Of course,” Samuel says, and Luce can see the tension rise in the other three Campbells.

One of the younger ones looks especially nervous, and Luce would bet anything that he’s the one who tried to run Jimmy down with his car last night.

“Samuel—” Robert starts, sounding anxious.

But Samuel gestures to the twitchy guy and says, “It was my grandnephew, Johnny.”

“Thank you, Samuel,” Jules says, stepping a little closer. “May I?”

Johnny shakes his head rapidly, but Samuel just steps aside, motions for him to move forward and meet Jules. God, Luce wants to gut the guy and watch his intestines spill out onto the dirt, just to let people know what they have to look forward to if they try to take out anyone connected to the Reapers.

“I will not hurt you right now,” Jules says slowly. “I just want to know why.”

“Why what?” Johnny asks.

“Why did you try to hit my son?”

“I… didn’t see him.”

Fucking _liar_ , Luce thinks, but he says nothing, because Jules must know that. Sure enough, Jules says, “The street in front of our lot is well-lit. It’s unreasonable that you wouldn’t have seen him. And Jimmy is not an idiot—he would have looked both ways before crossing the street.”

“I was just—driving fast—”

“Why don’t you just tell the truth, hmm?” Cas says suddenly. “We all know what you were thinking, so you might as well say it to my face.” Johnny stutters, takes a tiny step backward, and shakes his head.

“Cas,” Jules says in a warning tone.

But Cas ignores him and says, “You thought he was me. You wanted to _kill_ me.”

An impressive silence falls over everyone, but Luce totally approves of Cas’s candor. The Campbell kid obviously had the guts to go and run down a man—and not just any man, but a member of the Reapers—so he’d better own up to it.

“You’re lucky Jimmy’s tough, lucky he’s alive,” Cas says in a low voice, but everyone else is so quiet that it’s not hard to hear him at all. “If you killed him, I’d rip you apart. You _and_ your family.”

“Cas,” Samuel says with a tentative smile, “we had nothing to do with it. I assure you.”

“And Jimmy had nothing to do with club business, yet he got hit by a car. Is that fair?” Cas returns coldly.

“But he’s not dead,” Robert says. “So that means you can’t—”

Cas draws his gun, and Luce immediately follows suit, because it’s his job to be backup whenever shit goes down. Bobby shoves down at Luce’s arm, but Luce keeps it up resolutely, training it on Samuel, because no one’s gonna move if their leader is in danger.

“ _Don’t_ tell me what I can or can’t do. Your son is the one who’s in the wrong,” Cas says calmly.

“Jules, call your dogs off,” Samuel says. “This was Johnny’s doing, on his own. I wouldn’t want to screw with our arrangement, not when it’s all been working so well. You know that.”

There’s a tense moment, and then Jules says, “Boys, put your guns away.”

Cas lowers his gun immediately, but it takes Luce a little while longer, because he’s itching to blow the guy’s brain’s out. But they voted on this, and since Samuel gave up the boy, they won’t be killing anyone today. Looking across at the Campbells, Luce sees that Johnny is relieved, which makes sense, but Samuel looks so goddamn _smug_ that Luce almost can’t _stand_ it.

And then there’s a gunshot, and Johnny crumples to the ground.

The look of shock on Samuel’s face is _priceless_.

“An eye for an eye,” Jules says calmly, lowering his own gun—he’d drawn it so quickly and matter-of-factly that Luce hadn’t even noticed it.

“Jules—” Samuel starts, but he returns to gaping, even as Robert drops to his knees next to Johnny.

“We’re done here. You should have someone take a look at that leg,” Jules says definitively, already turning back toward the bikes. “Guys, let’s get outta here.”

Luce follows the president back over to the bikes. As he gets on, he casts a look back at the Campbells. They’re gathered around Johnny, but Samuel looks up as Jules rides out, and Luce can’t help but smirk at the outright fury on his face. Cas rides past him, and then it’s his turn to go.

* * *

Luther walks into the gym at Alpha Worthington’s house and blinks stupidly at the sight before him. The Lafitte twins are bench pressing in unison, side by side, and sure, it’s impressive, but it’s also dangerous.

“You guys probably shouldn’t be doing that,” he says as he walks inside. “Bench pressing without spotters is very irresponsible.”

The twins set the weights down on the racks and sit up, practically in the same motion, and cast the same skeptical look at him, as though he’s the idiot for worrying about their safety. Luther can’t resist making a bet with himself that the one on his right is Benny.

“Alpha wants to see you, Eli,” he says.

And of course, the guy on the right gets up, using a towel to wipe at the sweat all over his bare chest before draping it across his shoulders and heading out. Damn it, Luther’s never gonna get it right.

“Hmm, I hadn’t noticed the time,” Benny says, grabbing his own towel.

“You got somewhere to be?” Luther asks.

“I’ve got a sale to make in half an hour,” Benny replies, getting to his feet. He pauses before walking past Luther and says, “Y’know, I don’t think I’ve seen you around in a while. You should come over for dinner one of these days. You know you’re always welcome here, you and Kate.”

“I’ll see when she’s free, then,” Luther says. Kate has kept that job at the pawn shop, despite Luther making enough from his sales to take good care of the both of them, so he’ll have to pick a day when she’s not taking an evening shift.

Benny smiles, easy and relaxed. “Great. Be seeing you.”

“Yeah,” Luther says as Benny heads off to the showers.

God, the twins are such lucky bastards, Luther thinks as he looks around at the gym. It was pretty much set up just because they wanted it, since Alpha probably doesn’t work out much anymore—after all, the guy’s pushing sixty this year. Luther wishes he could have run into such good luck when he was a kid. The twins were adopted by Alpha, pulled in off the streets when they were twelve or thirteen years old, because Alpha had been a filthy rich, lonely man in his early forties who wanted kids without the trouble of a relationship—or, as he’s termed it, a scheming woman only after his money.

But no, Luther grew up with an absentee father—which was okay because his dad was fucking abusive whenever he actually _did_ come home—and a mother who saw him more as a burden than a son.

His phone rings then, and he pulls himself out of his self-pity to answer. “Hey, Kate,” he says, and he feels better already.

“Hey, you,” she answers. “I’m on break right now, but I’m thinking about closing up the shop a little early today, so… pick me up in about an hour?”

“Sure,” Luther says. “Love you.”

“I love you,” Kate answers, and hangs up.

Luther pulls the phone away from his ear and smiles at it for a moment before putting it away and leaving the gym—the smell of stale sweat was starting to get to him, anyway.

* * *

The beeping in Jimmy’s sickroom was kinda annoying when Alf first got there, but it’s gotten strangely soothing since, and he finds himself lulled by the even rhythm. But of course, as soon as he starts drifting off, the rhythm changes. At first, Alf doesn’t realize what it means, but then he looks over at the bed, and he sees Jimmy’s lashes fluttering, eyeballs moving beneath his eyelids, and _shit_ , he’s _waking up_.

Alf immediately pulls out his phone to call Cas, reaching over with his other hand to hit the button that’ll call the nurses over.

“Everything okay?” Cas says as soon as he picks up.

“I uh, I think so? Jimmy’s waking up,” Alf says.

“I’ll be right over.”

Cas hangs up before Alf can answer, and he pockets his phone, moving a little closer to Jimmy and touching the back of his hand. Jimmy hums a little, coughs, and his eyes flicker open.

“Hey,” Alf says, drawing Jimmy’s attention. “Hey, you’re okay.”

The door swings open then, and two nurses enter, followed right after by the doctor.

“He’s awake,” Alf says needlessly as the doctor and nurses go around to the other side of the bed to check on Jimmy. One of the nurses looks at the machine, and the doctor leans over the sickbed just a little, surprisingly concerned—in Alf’s experience, he’s only seen detached and clinical doctors.

“Dean,” Jimmy breathes, eyes widening, and okay, maybe Jimmy knows the doctor personally. But there’s something bitter in the way he’s looking at the doctor—Dean—and Alf doesn’t know what it is. He knows better than to ask, of course, but he’s so _curious_.

“Hey, Jimmy,” Dean says. He straightens and waves the nurses out of the way to look at the machine, and a little while later, he turns back to Jimmy and says, “You’re in the hospital—you were hit by a car last night outside Morton-Novak.”

“What?” Jimmy says weakly. “My legs—”

“They should still be numbed right now—don’t worry, they’re still there,” Dean says, voice soothing. “You have fractures in your shin and hip, and it’ll be a little while before you can walk on your own, but you’re gonna be fine.” Jimmy starts to sit up, but Dean gently pushes him down by his shoulders. “Don’t get up. Your ribs are cracked, too.”

Jimmy shuts his eyes, letting out a long sigh. “Where’s—”

“I can have the hospital contact your family,” Dean offers.

Alf speaks up then, saying, “Already on their way, Doc.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Dean says, managing a small smile. “You’ll be all right looking after him ‘til they get here, then, right?”

“Yeah,” Alf confirms.

Dean leaves the room, and Alf wonders what the story behind the doctor is, whether or not he’s got something to do with the club.

* * *

Jimmy watches Dean leave, followed by the nurses. God, what are the chances that Dean happened to be his doctor? And when did Dean get back to Morada, anyway? He’s fairly certain that Dean’s supposed to be in Chicago.

Looking to the side, he sees one of the prospects standing by the bed—Jimmy remembers seeing him yesterday, but he isn’t sure whether this is Alf or Bacon. “Who hit me?” Jimmy asks.

“I’m not sure,” the prospect says, “but Cas is on the way, and he’ll have answers.”

And just thinking about Cas, so soon after seeing Dean… god, Cas had been such a wreck, and Jimmy hadn’t known how to feel about it. He was happy that Dean and Sam managed to get away from all this shit, but he couldn’t _really_ be happy, not with Cas the way he was. Cas had been heartbroken—there was honestly no other word to describe it—and as a result, he’d sunk deeper and deeper into the club, like it was the only thing that meant anything to him.

Jimmy knows that the bond between Dean and Cas had gone deeper than brotherhood, knows it by the look that Cas used to get whenever he looked at Dean—it was different from the looks he gave Jimmy and Limey when they were growing up, different from the looks he gives the girls that he sleeps with now, a whole different kind of category.

Cas has never looked at another person like that, male or female, ever. Not that Jimmy has seen, at least. He’s definitely wondered whether or not Dean’s the reason why Cas pointedly keeps his eyes away from men, though. Jimmy’s secure enough that he doesn’t mind discussing attractiveness of other guys, but Cas has always avoided those kinds of conversations, doing his best to divert the topic whenever he can. It isn’t anything incriminating, of course, but it does raise questions.

Jimmy’s fine with it, but he doubts the club would be fine with having a gay VP.

Then Cas is rushing into the room, and the first word out of his mouth is, predictably, “Sorry, man.”

“It’s okay,” Jimmy tries to say, but Cas just keeps talking over him—

“Shit, Jimmy, I’m sorry. So sorry.”

“Cas, stop,” Jimmy says firmly, lightly squeezing his brother’s hand where it’s grasping his.

The door to the sickroom closes with a quiet click, and when Jimmy looks around, he notices that the prospect is gone already, leaving the brothers alone. Cas is still murmuring apologies, rubbing at Jimmy’s wrist with the thumb of one hand and squeezing his shoulder with the other.

“I’m fine, Cas,” Jimmy soothes. “I’m here, and I’m alive—everything’s fine.”

“Yeah,” Cas says finally, nodding. “Yeah, sorry, I just—fuck, it should have been me.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that,” Jimmy says sternly. “How are Amelia and Claire?”

“They’re okay,” Cas answers. “I stayed the night at your place just to make sure they weren’t actually targeting you, but there wasn’t a hit on them or anything. Claire’s still at school right now, but Amelia’s already going to pick her up. Naomi’s on her way over, too.”

“Okay,” Jimmy says. After a pause, he asks, “Do you know who it was?”

“Johnny Campbell,” Cas answers. “He’s been taken care of.”

Jimmy’s heart skips a beat, and he says, “Wait, you don’t mean—”

“Not killed,” Cas clarifies. “Just—we got him back for hitting you, and we let the Campbells know that they’ll get a hell of a lot worse, if anything like this happens again.”

“So Amelia and Claire should be safe, then,” Jimmy says.

“Yes. But I can stay there for a couple more nights, if it’d make you feel better,” Cas says. “It’s unlikely that they’ll be retaliating, since they were in the wrong to begin with, but I guess you never know…”

“That would make me feel better, yes,” Jimmy says.

“All right, then,” Cas says. “Some of the guys are here, just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“That’s… nice,” Jimmy says.

“If you don’t wanna see them, that’s fine. You don’t have to. I’ll just let ‘em know that you’re fine, and they’ll head out.”

“Yeah, I don’t really want to deal with… _people_ , right now.”

Cas huffs a laugh. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be back in a sec.”

* * *

They’re in Robert’s living room, Mark and Robert hovering worriedly in the background as Samuel digs the slug out of Johnny’s leg. It’s a little distracting, but he’s worked in far worse conditions—he used to have to do this type of work on the field, and he wasn’t even really a medic. They just had to take care of themselves whenever a medic wasn’t close enough to help.

“You’re a goddamn idiot, you know,” Samuel says. “If you’d actually put Cas Novak in the hospital, we’d have one less tiger to worry about. But instead, you pissed them off without hitting them in a place that _actually_ hurts them.”

“Sorry, Samuel. I’m sorry,” Johnny whimpers as Samuel works the bullet free and drops it in a small cup of water.

“All right, I have to disinfect this. It’s going to hurt,” Samuel says, reaching for the solution.

He pours some disinfectant over the wound, and Johnny cries out, fingers clenching on the sofa. Samuel just shushes him, patting his side in an attempt at offering comfort. The boy hasn’t had an injury like this before, so of course he doesn’t know how to take it.

“Alcohol,” Samuel says over his shoulder, and Mark comes over with the bottle. “Let him drink some—slowly.”

Robert goes to help Johnny into a semi-sitting position, which isn’t ideal because his leg is no longer elevated, but Samuel figures he’s in no danger of death by blood loss, so he’ll be fine. Mark brings the bottle to his little brother’s lips, and Samuel turns his attention back to the wound, grabbing some gauze to press against it.

“It’ll be all right,” he murmurs. “We’ll take care o’ you, kid.”

* * *

It takes about an hour and a half for them to get to Oakland, which isn’t bad, considering they ran into a bit of traffic on the way.

They find parking in front of Fenton’s, which is a goddamn miracle because there’s _never_ parking right in front, and go inside to get a table.

“God, we haven’t been here in for _ever_ ,” Ava says.

“Lenore had better get here soon—they won’t seat us if our whole party isn’t here,” Jake says.

Ava doesn’t really remember that being a rule, but it won’t be a problem for them, because she catches sight of Lenore walking toward the restaurant. She elbows Jake before heading out, greeting Lenore with a hug and a kiss to the cheek.

“I haven’t seen you in forever,” Ava says.

“Yes, it’s been a while,” Lenore agrees as Ava steers her inside.

It’s not busy on a Wednesday afternoon, so they’re seated a minute later, Ava scooting into the booth after Lenore while Jake takes the seat opposite, effectively boxing her in.

“So, what’s this about?” Lenore asks after they’ve received their menus.

“Let’s talk about that in a minute,” Ava says. “First, we should figure out what we’re gonna order.”

“Well, I already know what I’m getting,” Jake says without even looking at the menu. And yeah, back when they were still in the orphanage, Azazel used to take them here once a month, as long as they behaved. Ava smiles a little, remembering the giddy excitement that used to fill the bus—Azazel usually rented his own bus and drove them there, all twenty-some of them.

“The Banana Special, right?” Lenore says with a smile. “You always got that.”

“Yep. That much hasn’t changed,” Jake responds. “Waitin’ on you, ladies.”

Ava purses her lips and peruses the menu for a while before deciding on the Saddleback Brownie. A minute or two later, the waitress comes back and takes their orders.

When she’s left with their menus, Lenore says, “All right, let’s just get this over with.”

“Hey, I’m offended. How can you assume that we’re only here to ask you for something?” Jake says.

“When have you ever come to visit me, _not_ on Azazel’s orders?” Lenore asks.

Jake opens his mouth to protest, but he ends up grinning instead. “Okay, so you’re right,” he says. “It’s got nothing to do with Eli this time, though.”

“Oh,” Lenore says, visibly relieved. And then she frowns. “But what else could he need from me?”

“Uh, well. How close are you to Susan Roman?” Ava asks.

“Oh, god,” Lenore groans.

“Better your friend than your husband, right?” Ava reasons.

“If I give up a little bit on information from Eli, I know I won’t lose him. But Susan’s—if she finds out, she might never talk to me again.”

“That’s only if she finds out. We have no reason to believe she would ever—” Jake tries.

“Don’t give me those kinds of reassurances, all right? You always hear people doing things behind other people’s backs, saying that they’ll never find out, but they always do.”

“Look, we need you. _Azazel_ needs you. We all owe him so much, Lenore. You know that,” Ava says. He was the one who took care of them, taught them everything they knew. He made sure they never went hungry, and he never once beat them—he was like a father to them, really.

Lenore sighs. “I’ll… give Susan a call, see what I can find out.”

“I think it’d be better if you went in person,” Ava says.

“I’ll ask,” Lenore says. “But I’m not making any guarantees, all right? If the question’s too weird, I won’t be able to work it into a normal conversation.”

“That’s reasonable,” Ava says, and when she looks across at Jake, he’s nodding in agreement.

“Okay, then,” Lenore says. “What does Azazel want to know?”

* * *

Meg spends the day relaxing at her dad’s house—she really doesn’t come back to Morada all that often even though Stockton’s literally only fifteen minutes away. It’s nice to snoop around the house where she spent most of her childhood. She goes through the room that she used to share with Peg and finds a stash of old photos.

When Dad gets home in the afternoon, she’s sitting on the couch, watching TV. A few of her favorites out of the photo collection are spread out on the table because she wanted to share them.

“Meg!” Dad says as he steps into the house, and she gets to her feet to greet him.

“Heya, Daddy,” she says, throwing her arms around his neck. “I’ve missed you.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about last night,” Dad says. “If you’re free, I’ll take you out to dinner tonight, to make up for it. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds great,” Meg answers with a smile.

She goes to sit back down on the couch, but instead of watching the TV, her eyes follow her dad as he shrugs out of his cut and hangs it on one of the chairs in the kitchen before going to grab a drink. He returns with two beers, passing one to Meg before parking himself on the couch next to her.

“So what happened last night?” Meg asks conversationally. “I mean, I was going to the clubhouse to look for you, but I saw police cars, so I figured it’d be best if I just stayed away.”

“You definitely chose right,” Dad says, taking a drink from his bottle. “Though it wouldn’t have been a problem if you’d showed up, I’m sure. Jimmy was hit by a car.”

Meg lets her eyes go wide, feigning surprise. “What? Is he all right? Do you know who hit him?”

“Calm down. We already dealt with the bastard who hit him, so there’s nothing to worry about,” Dad answers. “And I just got back from the hospital—Jimmy’s just fine. I split a little early to come see you.”

“Aw, thanks, Daddy.”

It’s good news that the Reapers have apparently settled the score with the Campbells, but her dad saying that something’s been dealt with isn’t always a good thing—retaliation is totally possible, if Dad was in charge of whatever went down today.

But Meg’s pretty sure Jules and Cas would’ve been there, so everything should be fine.

Speaking of Cas, Meg should go to see him, sometime. Probably tomorrow, since she’s already got plans with her dad for tonight. It’s been too long since they got together, and she misses him. Maybe she’ll go wait for him at the hospital—he’s bound to go visit Jimmy, anyway.

* * *

When Victor arrives at the hospital, there are plenty of bikes in the lot—confirmation that Jimmy Novak is probably awake, and is therefore fair game for questioning. He goes inside and heads for Jimmy’s sickroom, but the hallway in front of his room is occupied by six men in cuts, one man in casual dress, and—because the world hates him—Naomi.

“What are _you_ doing here?” she demands as soon as her eyes land on him.

“Only my job,” Victor replies evenly as he takes stock of who’s present. The cut-wearing men are Jules Morton, Cas Novak, Bobby Singer, Mike Milton, and two prospects, one of whom is Aaron Bass. Victor doesn’t know the name of the other. Limey Moran is the only man without a cut—Victor had been pretty surprised when he heard that Limey didn’t go right back to the club when he got outta jail. “I’d like to speak with Jimmy, find out who did the hit-and-run.”

“His wife and daughter are in there right now,” Jules says, getting a hold of Naomi’s arm to restrain her.

“I wouldn’t mind their presence,” Victor says—Amelia is a whole lot easier to get along with than these bikers, for obvious reasons.

“They went in less than ten minutes ago, Henriksen,” Naomi says. “If you had any sense of decency, you’d at least let them have ‘til tomorrow before going in to question him about something that wasn’t even his fault.”

“This isn’t a matter of decency,” Victor says. “If he can remember seeing something, anything at all, it could be helpful to our investigation.”

“I’m not trying to say that you’re discriminating,” Cas says, stepping forward, “but just ask yourself whether or not you’d be so keen if it were anyone else in the hospital right now.”

“I don’t treat—”

“You can spin it anyway you like, but we all know you’re just keen on finding out what’s going on with the club,” Cas goes on. “What do you _really_ wanna get outta this, hmm? Justice for Jimmy, or some more dirt on the club?”

Victor grits his teeth. “I am a law enforcement officer—I work solely to uphold the law, so whatever you’re implying…” he stops and shakes his head, eyes flicking back and forth between the faces of the Reapers present. “Are you going to let me into that room or not?”

“Not,” Naomi says.

“I could arrest you for obstruction of justice,” Victor threatens, and everyone in the hallway tenses up.

Before Naomi can retort, Jules pulls her aside. “It’s all right,” he says, quiet and calm.

Victor has literally _never_ seen the man worked up, and to be honest, it’s terrifying. Rage, anger, fear, and anxiety are normal responses to police investigations, and Victor has been trained to deal with them. But Jules is always stone-cold, doesn’t ever lose his cool. It’s impressive as much as it is unnerving.

“We’ll let the man do his job,” the club president goes on, stepping to the side and pushing the door open. “Amelia, would you mind taking Claire out here for a minute? The good deputy has a few questions for your husband.”

“Yes, of course,” Amelia says from within. She emerges with Claire in tow and immediately takes her place at Naomi’s side.

Victor walks over to the doorway. “Thank you,” he manages stiffly as he passes by Jules. The old man only nods once, and then Victor closes the door.

“Deputy Henriksen,” Jimmy says. “Will this be on the record?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, it has to be,” Victor says, turning to look at the sickbed. Jimmy seems okay, lying there with a few tubes still attached to him. His legs are in casts, and he’s very carefully not moving. “How are you feeling?”

Jimmy chuckles. “I don’t think that’s relevant to the investigation, Deputy. Just ask me your questions, and then we can get to the social part of the visit.”

“All right,” Victor says with a smile. He takes the seat next to Jimmy’s bed and asks, “What is the last thing you remember?”

“Claire,” Jimmy says after a moment. Victor raises his eyebrows in astonishment but says nothing, waiting for Jimmy to continue. “I remember looking at the time and thinking I’d be able to go home and talk to Claire before she went to bed.”

“And what were you doing at the clubhouse?” Victor asks next, suppressing the achy feeling in his chest at Jimmy’s admission—he’s always had a soft spot for anything to do with kids.

“Meeting with a client,” Jimmy answers. “Jules had some questions about Bill’s upcoming parole.”

“Okay, and what is your relationship like, with your stepfather?”

Jimmy frowns at him. “I’m not sure that’s relevant, but it’s all right. We get along just fine.”

It’s hard to tell whether or not it’s the truth, but Victor presses on, “Did you see the car that hit you?”

“No.”

When Jimmy doesn’t offer more information, Victor has to ask, “Can you describe the moment of the accident? You say that your last memory is of thinking about your daughter—does that mean you were caught completely off-guard?”

Jimmy considers the question before replying, “It was dark. I… All I remember is that the car came at me from the left. There was a bright light… probably headlights? And that’s it.”

“Nothing else?” Victor asks.

“No,” Jimmy answers, shaking his head.

Then the door swings open from the outside, and Victor turns to see Chief Turner standing in the doorway, looking particularly stern.

“Chief,” Jimmy acknowledges.

“Hello, Jimmy,” Turner says, expression softening for a moment. But when he looks back at Victor, he’s all pursed lips and angry eyes, and Victor gets to his feet, because he knows he’s about to get a dressing-down. “I’m just going to speak to the deputy outside for a couple o’ minutes,” Turner continues, stepping aside to let Amelia and Claire back into the room. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Jimmy only nods, and Turner gives Victor an expectant look.

Outside, Victor expects to see the club members still there, but they’re gone, surprisingly—all except for Cas, who’s sitting on a bench opposite the door. He smiles, thin-lipped, but Turner steers Victor down the hall before they can exchange any words.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, here?” Turner asks when they’re alone.

“My job.”

“Does your _job_ dictate that you come in and interrogate the victim of a hit-and-run as soon as he wakes up?” Turner demands. “And since when did you make all the decisions for this station, hmm? I may be retiring soon, but I’m not gone yet, boy.”

“With all due respect, _sir_ , as Deputy Chief of our police department, I was acting completely within my legal rights,” Victor shoots back. “Any amount of information is critical, if we’re gonna catch the person who hit Jimmy. Seeing as we’ve got nothing to go on, I thought it’d be important to see what we could find out from him.”

“Now, you listen to me—”

“No, _you_ listen to _me_. I don’t know how the hell you managed to get to police chief here, but I have faith in the system, so I figure you must have had some principles, at some point in your life. I don’t know what’s happened to you since, but if you still care about what’s right, about what’s best for this town, you need to stop protecting that motorcycle club and let me do my job.” Turner looks fucking _incensed_ , and Victor backs up a step. “Now, I’m gonna go talk to the doctor. Are you gonna stop me?”

Turner clenches his jaw before saying, “Go. Get outta my sight.”

Victor doesn’t waste a beat, hurrying down the hall and around the corner because shit, that sort of insubordination totally could have cost him his job. But his words must have hit home, if Turner’s not going to go after him for it.

He makes his way toward Dean’s office, hoping he’ll be able to get something usable.

* * *

“I heard you operated on Cas’s brother a couple days ago,” Sam says.

Dean sighs into the phone. He’s at work, but there isn’t anything that needs his immediate attention, so he decided he’d give Sam a call, see how he’s doing. Besides, they haven’t actually seen each other since Dean moved back to Morada, and they should probably get together soon, now that they’re only separated by a fifteen, twenty-minute drive.

“How’d you even find out about that?” Dean asks.

“I have my connections,” Sam answers. “So, what happened?”

“What, your ‘connections’ couldn’t tell you that?” Dean snaps, irritable. “Look, it had nothing to do with Cas. Jimmy’s just a patient. He got hit by a car. It was an accident.”

“An accident. Really,” Sam says dryly. “Give me some credit, man. I grew up in that town, too.”

“I’m not trying to get back in with the Reapers, Sam. I only saw Cas because his brother was in the hospital. I haven’t even talked to Bobby since I got back,” Dean says tiredly. They’ve gone over Dean’s decision to return to Morada more than once, and he’s sick of Sam thinking that he’s only doing it to get close to Cas again. “So you can quit getting on my case about that.”

“I never said you had to stop talking to Bobby, okay?” Sam says. “It’s just—you being back in Morada makes me nervous.”

“Well, it’s fine. Nothing’s going to happen,” Dean says, hoping to stop the conversation there.

“You and Cas—”

“Quit talking about Cas, all right? We were never even together, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“We’re putting together a case against the club,” Sam says suddenly. “I don’t have any of the details just yet, but I’m meeting with the man in charge of the investigation tomorrow. Look, Dean, you’ve worked really hard for what you have now, and the last thing I want is to see you getting dragged down by them.”

“Wait, you—you’ve been put on their case,” Dean says, frowning.

Sam sighs. “Yes.”

“I thought I told you not to take any cases against the Reapers,” Dean says sharply.

“I couldn’t exactly refuse,” Sam says. “Everyone knows that I’m from Morada, and that our dad—just, the DA put me on this case and said I’d be working with ATF. So that’s what I have to do.”

“So they’re taking advantage of your relationship to the club, is that it?” Dean asks.

“Christ, Dean, no. You know better than anyone that we don’t have a way in with them anymore. They just know that I’ll be more familiar with the town than anyone else we’ve got in the office,” Sam answers. “The Reapers have done a lot for our family—they _were_ our family. But they’re still outlaws, and that means I can’t just turn a blind eye. And besides, even if I wanted to let them off, there are other people working in the DA’s office.”

Dean clenches his jaw. “I’m not asking you to do them any favors, all right? I just think it’s a bad idea for you to be working any case that has to do with them.”

“And you say you don’t care about Cas,” Sam says softly.

“I don’t! I care about _you_ , you friggin’ idiot!” Dean blurts out. “You’ve seen what happens to people who go up against these guys. It never ends well for them.”

“Yeah well, they don’t know the club like I do.”

“Damn it, Sam—” He’s interrupted by a knock on the door, and he groans.

“What?” Sam asks.

“Nothing. Someone’s here. I’ll call you back later, all right?”

“Actually, I’m gonna be in Morada tomorrow—will you have some time to meet up, maybe grab lunch?”

“Sure,” Dean says. “I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah, see you.”

Dean hangs up his phone and calls out, “Come on in!”

The door swings open to reveal Victor, and Dean smiles because it’s been too goddamn long.

“Hey, Dean,” Victor says, entering the office and closing the door behind him.

“Victor,” Dean says, smiling warmly. “It’s been a long time.”

“Indeed,” Victor says.

“But you’re in uniform, so I’m guessing this isn’t a social call. Anything I can help you with?”

“I was just hoping you’d be able to tell me something useful about the car, maybe, going from Jimmy’s injuries,” Victor says.

“Not much,” Dean says. “It was probably a small-sized sedan, but that’s pretty much it.”

Victor nods, a disappointed twist to his lips. “Yeah, I figured that much on my own. But thanks anyway,” he says. A beat later, he asks, “How’ve you been?”

“Fine,” Dean says.

“Why’d you decide to come back?”

“Don’t know. Guess I just missed the place,” Dean answers. It’s the truth. And anyway, he’s done running—fuck it all, he’s been running for half his life, and he didn’t really even know what he was running from ‘til he came back here.

“Well, I’m glad to have you back,” Victor says.

“Thanks.”

“I uh, do have a favor to ask of you, though.”

“Okay,” Dean says.

“The club members have been hanging around Jimmy’s sickroom—”

“Because he’s part of their family,” Dean says.

“Yes, I know,” Victor acknowledges. “Still, I can’t help but think that he’d be more willing to help out with my investigation if they weren’t around, y’know? More willing to tell me something.”

Frowning, Dean says, “I doubt it. But if you’d like, I could talk to hospital admin about restricting Jimmy’s visiting hours.”

“That would be very helpful, Dean. Thank you.”

“Not at all,” Dean says.

“Well, that was everything, so… I’ll head out, now. Give me a call sometime. We should grab a couple beers and catch up. Have you been down to see Jo and Ellen yet?”

“I saw Jo last night, but Ellen wasn’t at the bar,” Dean says. “I’m going back on Friday, though, so we could meet up there, if you’re free.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, smiling.

Victor leaves the room, shutting the door on his way out, and Dean wonders how he’s been. He and Victor had gone to the same schools since they were little, but they didn’t really start becoming friends until after Dean had cut off his ties with the club and ended his friendship with Cas. They’re close, but in Dean’s mind, no one could ever replace Cas—no one ever has.

He hadn’t really thought about the uniqueness of his relationship with Cas, not until long after they’d separated, when he was already nice and far away from Morada. They _were_ more than friends, even though Dean hadn’t really known it at the time. He knows it now, but he isn’t sure Cas does.

It’s too late to fix anything, anyway.

Glancing at the clock, Dean sees that it’s a little past three, which means Linda should still be in the hospital somewhere. He gets to his feet, thinking about whether or not he should come up with a separate excuse to ask that Jimmy’s visiting hours be limited.

No, better to just tell her that Victor would like privacy while questioning the patient, and having members of the MC hovering around outside doesn’t help. Linda isn’t a big fan of the MC anyway, so it’s pretty safe to say she’ll grant Dean’s request.

* * *

The phone rings, and Susan has to jog across the ground floor to get it, because she left her phone charging on the kitchen counter.

“Hello?” she says when she gets it.

“Hi—Susan? It’s Lenore.”

“Oh, hi!” Susan says, trying to catch her breath.

“Why are you panting?” Lenore asks.

“Oh, it’s just this damned house,” Susan replies. “It’s so much bigger than I’m used to. I’ve never had to sprint to get the phone before, anyway.”

Lenore laughs. “So you’re pretty much done moving in, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s been _so_ tiring, but yes, _finally_ , we are done moving in,” Susan says. “Now, we’ve just gotta clean out the old house and make some renovations, and then we’ll be able to rent it out! And by ‘we,’ I really mean ‘I,’ because Dick is doing jack shit about all this moving business.”

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” Lenore says, and Susan rolls her eyes.

“Oh, don’t take that commiserating tone with me,” Susan says. “You and Andrea are the only girls in your household, and you’ve got _maids_ to take care of everything. God, you’re a lucky bitch.”

“Yes well, you love me anyway.”

“God help me, but I do,” Susan says, smiling. “So, what’re you calling about?”

“I just wanted to see the new house,” Lenore says. “And it sounds like you’re all moved in, so…”

“Oh, sure! It’s really about time we caught up. I feel like I haven’t seen you in _ages_. Do you have the new address?” Susan asks.

“Yeah, I think you texted it to me at some point. I can probably find it again.”

“Oh okay, that’s good. Are you thinking of coming by sometime this weekend?” Susan asks, crossing the room to a large calendar that’s hanging on the side of the fridge. Dick has a dentist’s appointment on Saturday morning, but he doesn’t have to be around when Lenore comes over, anyway.

“Actually, I’m free tomorrow and I’ve got nothing better to do, so I was hoping to drive out to Lodi, if you’d have me over,” Lenore says.

“Hmm. I’ll have to check with Dick, but it should be fine,” Susan says—they’ve got nothing in the slot for Thursday, but sometimes Dick forgets to mark that he’s busy, or that he’ll have people coming over.

“Oh okay, that sounds good,” Lenore says. “Just text me when you find out, I guess.”

“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow, hopefully. And if not, come up over the weekend, okay?”

“Okay. Bye,” Lenore says.

“Bye.” Susan hangs up and turns in time to see her husband walking into the kitchen.

“What did you need to check with me?” he asks, leaning in to kiss her cheek before stepping over to the front of the fridge and pulling it open.

“Lenore wants to come over tomorrow,” Susan answers, watching as Dick pulls out a can of V8 juice.

“Mhmm,” he grunts. “Which one was she, again?”

Susan sighs. “My friend from Oakland. We were in the business together for a few years. Lenore Lafitte.”

“Lafitte?” Dick repeats, sounding a little surprised.

“She got married, remember? We even went to the wedding,” Susan says, annoyed. Dick is so attentive and caring at times, but other times, it’s like he doesn’t even know her.

“Ah, yes. Her husband is one of the twins.”

“Correct.”

Dick takes a drink before answering, “She’s free to come over, as long as it’s not before noon. I’m going to be meeting with some friends in the morning, and I’d rather not have them run into each other. Just so no toes are stepped on. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Susan says—it’s entirely possible that Dick means to meet with enemies of the ‘Nines. She’s never really sure what he has going on. “I’ll let her know, then. Will you be joining us for lunch tomorrow?”

“Sure, honey,” Dick says, smiling. He presses another quick kiss to her cheek before wandering out of the kitchen.

Susan lifts her cell phone and starts to compose a text to Lenore.

* * *

Naomi lies partially on top of her husband, resting her head on one of his shoulders and a hand on the other. He’s breathing deeply and evenly, but she knows that he’s awake, can feel it because he’s not fully relaxed under her.

So she knows that she won’t be waking him up when she says, “Jules, I’m worried.”

Jules clears his throat before replying, “What are you worried about, dear?”

“Cas. He… I don’t think he was ever right, after Dean left like that. He’s been strong, been doing okay, but now… now Dean’s back.”

“And?”

Naomi huffs, annoyed. “Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Jules. You must know what that means. Ever since John passed, Dean wasn’t one of us. It took Charles dying for him to really show it, but we all know it started with John. He’s probably got all sorts of ideas about the club in his head, and the last thing we need is for Cas to get tangled up with him again.”

“He won’t,” Jules says quietly, confidently. “Besides, Dean is the one who came back. Why do you assume that Dean will be the one pulling Cas out of the club? It could very well go the other way around.”

“But it won’t,” Naomi says, shaking her head. “You saw them grow up, watched them as much as I did. Cas was always the one to follow Dean—you must remember that. They used to talk about becoming President and Vice President, but in their minds, _Dean_ was always going to be the one calling the shots.”

“Things have changed. Cas isn’t the same little boy he used to be.”

“No, but I’m afraid that Dean—that being around Dean—will turn him back into that,” Naomi says.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jules says, patting her back. “And don’t be afraid. Cas isn’t going anywhere—he’ll put his family first when it matters, so you’ve got nothing to worry about. He won’t ever choose Dean over the rest of us. Especially not over you, or Jimmy.”

Naomi sighs, tired. Jules can tell her not to be afraid, but that doesn’t change how she _feels_. She’s always had an excellent instinct when it comes to people, she’s sure that given enough interaction with Dean, Cas would fall right back in love with him—to be honest, she doesn’t think Cas has ever fallen _out_ of love with Dean, whether he knows it or not.

“Please stop thinking so much, baby. You’re giving _me_ a headache.”

Naomi manages a small smile, lifting her head to kiss her husband. “I was just wondering about Jimmy,” she says, trying to change the direction of her thoughts. “Did you find out who hit him?”

“Johnny Campbell.”

“Robert’s boy?” Naomi says. “I guess I can’t say I’m surprised. Was it an ordered hit?”

“Samuel insists that it wasn’t.”

“And do you believe him?”

“I s’pose I do.”

“So you’ve met with him already,” Naomi says. “What happened?”

“The matter’s been resolved,” Jules says, pressing her head back down to his shoulder. He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, wearily. “I think I’ll have to call in some of the Nomads tomorrow morning, see if they’re close enough to come by. Could you put together a dinner at the clubhouse?”

“Yes, of course,” Naomi says, concerned—the club only calls in the Nomads when they’re in need of more bodies, and Jules even said that the problem had been taken care of. “But Jules, isn’t this over already?” she asks, looking up.

Jules shakes his head. “I’m afraid it’s only just begun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Terms for non-SoA fans:**
> 
> ATF- Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives; part of the U.S. Department of Justice  
> gunrunner- person who transports and sells illegal guns  
> old lady- the wife or steady girlfriend of an MC member
> 
> Again, let me know if anything is unclear, and I'll do my best to clear it up for you.


	3. The Times, They Are a-Changin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam comes to visit Dean in Morada, making it the first time in years that they've been in town at the same time. A spectre of Dean's past in Chicago comes to town, electing to remain out of sight for the time being. Chief Turner hesitantly alerts the MC to Agent Crowley's presence in Morada. The Demons find out about the Campbell-Leviathan alliance through the Oakland 'Nines and share that information with the Amazons. Meanwhile, the 'Nines approach both the Leviathans and the Reapers, looking for the alliance that will most benefit them. The representative who visits Dick Roman is well-received, but the meeting with the Reapers ends bloody.

Abaddon gets up around five o’clock feeling irritable and unrested—with all the impending turbulence on the horizon, she’s been having trouble falling asleep and staying asleep all night, and she’s done with trying. Granted, she doesn’t sleep much anyway, but usually she can stay in bed until six thirty at least.

Pressing a quick kiss to Bela’s mussed brown locks, she gets out of bed and stretches before pulling on Bela’s robe, snatching up her cell phone, and wandering out into their living room.

Seated comfortably in the chair Bela selected just for her, Abaddon dials Meg’s number and holds the phone to her ear. It takes several rings for Meg to pick up, and when she does, she’s mid-yawn.

“Abaddon? Is something wrong?” she asks sleepily.

“Is your father nearby? Or your uncle?” Abaddon asks.

“No. No, I’m in my room, in bed, because it’s five o’clock in the morning,” Meg says.

“Did Luce tell you anything about what happened to Jimmy?”

Meg yawns again. “Not really. He just said that everything was uh, taken care of already. ‘Dealt with,’ if you want his exact words.”

That could mean anything, Abaddon thinks, frustrated. But it makes sense that they’d be careful around Meg—it’s not as though they don’t know that she is a member of Amazons MC. “All right, then,” Abaddon says. She’ll have to do some more digging if she wants to know exactly what went down between the Campbells and Reapers, but if nothing else happens, it might not be that important.

“Actually, since I’ve already got you on the phone, I was just wondering…” Meg says, “…would it be all right if I took the rest of the morning off?”

“Why?”

“Oh, personal reasons,” Meg says, but she sounds slightly too careful. “I just want to spend more time with my dad.”

“I already gave you all yesterday evening to spend with your father,” Abaddon says, deciding to call her bluff. “What more time do you need?”

“I wanted to visit Jimmy,” Meg admits, folding easily. She adds, defensively, “I grew up with him, okay? It wasn’t easy, watching him get hit by a car and then not being able to visit him because I had to pretend I didn’t know what was happening.”

Abaddon has to concede that Meg did well handling the incident on the night before last, so she says, “All right, then. But I want you back in Stockton by one o’ clock. Can you do that?”

“Yes. Thanks, Abaddon,” Meg says. “If there’s nothing else, I’m gonna go back to sleep. You should try to get some sleep too, boss.”

Abaddon smiles. “Sleep well.”

She hangs up then, setting the phone down on the armrest and tilting her head back to rest against the soft chair back. Jimmy isn’t the real reason why Meg wants to stay in Morada, and Meg isn’t visiting Jimmy to visit Jimmy either. No, Abaddon knows that the girl still has feelings for Cas Novak. He’s the one she hopes to see today by going to the hospital.

It’s not likely that Cas will take her back; of that much Abaddon feels quite certain. But if Meg wants to try… well, on the off chance that she does succeed in changing his mind, it can only mean good things for the Amazons.

* * *

Limey goes to visit Jimmy in the hospital around seven fifteen, because he doesn’t have to be at the lumberyard until eight. He signs in with the front desk and is given directions to Jimmy’s sickroom. It takes him less than a minute to find the right room, but just as he’s going to knock, the door swings open, and a man steps out.

“Oh. Sorry,” the man says reflexively, starting to walk past, but Limey gets a better look at his face, and something _clicks_ in his mind, and he grabs onto the man’s arm.

“Dean,” Limey says, and holy _shit_ , what the fuck is _he_ doing in town? Who does he think he _is_ , coming to see Jimmy?

Dean, for his part, takes a second look at Limey before recognizing him, and he looks a little astonished as he says, “Oh, wow, Limey. I haven’t—how are you? How’ve you been?”

Limey makes sure the door to Jimmy’s room is closed before saying, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Dude, what—”

“Why the hell are you even seeing _Jimmy_ right now, of all people?” Limey demands.

“He’s my patient,” Dean says, prying Limey’s hand off his arm, and oh, he hadn’t even realized that he’d tightened his grip. Taking in Dean’s scrubs and his white coat, it makes sense. He even has a name tag that says _Dr. Winchester_ on it.

“Christ,” Limey says, shaking his head. “You’d better not come anywhere near Cas if you wanna stay alive in this town,” he says, looking Dean in the eye to make it clear that he’s not fucking around. He lowers his voice a little as he adds, “I’ve done five years on the inside, and I’m not afraid of going back in if it’s for Cas’s sake, so you’d better watch yourself.”

“Is there a problem?” a female voice says from behind him, and Limey almost jumps, turning around to see a short, Asian woman with a clipboard, looking between him and Dean with concern.

“No, Linda, everything’s fine,” Dean says with a quick smile. “This man was just here to visit Jimmy, and he ran into me while I was coming out, so he asked me about Jimmy’s condition.”

“Mhmm,” Linda says skeptically, but she doesn’t question it.

“So if you don’t have any other questions, I’ll continue on my rounds, now,” Dean says.

“Thank you for your time,” Limey responds, because he _does_ know how to play nice.

Dean flashes another quick smile, this one at Limey, before turning and going down the hall. Linda excuses herself to go after him, and Limey turns to enter the sickroom.

“Hey,” Jimmy says when Limey’s inside, and he sounds concerned. “What was that about?”

“What was what about?”

“You ran into Dean, didn’t you?”

Limey huffs a sigh and sits down in the chair that’s right next to Jimmy’s sickbed. “I wasn’t sure you saw me,” he says. “Could you hear anything?”

“No. The walls here are pretty soundproof. Doors and windows, too,” Jimmy answers.

“Eh, well. I didn’t say anything you didn’t already predict, I’m sure,” Limey says.

Jimmy’s lips twist into a wry smile, and he says, “I thought about giving him a stern talking-to myself, but he’s never listened to me anyway. And I was sure he’d be getting it from Naomi at least, if no one else.”

“Your mother is a scary bitch,” Limey says, and Jimmy laughs.

“She is,” he acknowledges.

“I’m sorry it took me until today to come see you,” Limey starts.

“Oh don’t apologize,” Jimmy says. “I was really only awake for half the day yesterday, so coming in to visit would’ve been pointless anyway.”

“Still. I came after work, but then Henriksen was here, so Cas didn’t want us to—”

“It’s fine, Limey. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“How are Amelia and Claire? Did they take it okay?” Limey asks.

“They’re all right,” Jimmy replies. “Cas stayed with them last night and the night before, so I’m sure they’re fine. Amelia says he’ll be staying for the rest of the week, probably.”

“That sounds like him,” Limey says fondly.

“Yeah,” Jimmy agrees. After a pause, he asks, “How’s your family? I don’t think I’ve talked to you since you got out, I mean. How are Kathleen and Riley? It’s been… they’ve gotta be about nine, and—”

“Nine and six, yeah,” Limey says, nodding. “They’re all right. They didn’t have long to… well, they didn’t really have much to remember me by while I was gone. It’s—it’s getting better.”

“Well, that’s good,” Jimmy says. “And Rachel?”

“She’s a lot happier now,” Limey answers. Chuckling, he adds, “Well, she’d better be, or I would’ve walked out on my brothers for nothing.”

Jimmy shakes his head. “You didn’t,” he says, and Limey has to look away, because he doesn’t think he believes what Jimmy is saying. “That wasn’t—you’re still like a brother to all of them, I swear. To me, too. You didn’t walk out on us.”

“You can’t exactly say that. You’ve never worn the cut.”

“Don’t use that bullshit on me,” Jimmy says, and Limey’s surprised by his sharp tone—he’s usually so mild-mannered that Limey almost forgets that he can be just as fierce as Cas, when he’s worked up. “I may never have been a ‘brother’ in the eyes of the club, but I’m Cas’s biological brother, and believe me, I _know_ about brotherhood. I don’t have to have worn a cut to understand.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have said that,” Limey admits, looking back at Cas’s twin.

“That’s right, you shouldn’t have,” Jimmy says. He stops, probably trying to decide whether or not to go on, before making up his mind and saying, “You’re not Dean.”

Limey blinks, surprised, and god, he hadn’t even realized that he needed to hear those words until they were already out in the open. “I’m not,” he agrees, relishing the sudden burst of relief in his chest, because he may have hung up the cut, but he _hasn’t_ walked out on Cas, on the club. Not really. He doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to.

He doesn’t wear the cut anymore, but he’s still got the ink on his back.

“Thanks, Jimmy,” he says.

“Hey, I’m just glad you listened. I’ll obviously be out of commission for a while—” he gestures toward his legs, both of them wrapped up in casts, “—so someone’s gonna have to keep an eye on Cas for me, and as much as I trust the club, they’re not _my_ family. So… look after him for me?”

Limey smiles. “Of course.”

* * *

Sam gets to Café Delaney ten minutes early for his eleven thirty meeting with the ATF agent on this case, a Mr. Crowley. He’s surprised that they’re meeting here and not in an office, but Mr. Crowley chose the place, and Sam had no reason to argue. He has no clue what the guy looks like, but there aren’t many other people here, and Sam kinda sticks out, in his suit and tie.

Five minutes later, a kinda short guy walks in, dressed smartly in a pressed suit. He walks confidently up to the counter, talks to the cashier, and then makes a slow spin, probably scanning the room. It’s hard to tell because the man is still wearing his sunglasses, and Sam can already hear Dean’s voice in his head— _douchebag_.

Then the guy is coming right at his table, and Sam starts getting to his feet, but Mr. Crowley waves a hand dismissively, and Sam remains seated.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Hello, Mr. Crowley,” Sam responds, shaking the man’s hand over the table.

His face scrunches up a little, and he says, “Normally ‘Mr. Crowley’ is fine, but from your lips, it sounds incredibly awkward.”

“Agent Crowley?” Sam tries.

The man shakes his head. “Just Crowley will do.”

“Okay, then,” Sam says, a little off-kilter at the strange start. He shakes it off and starts with, “The file you left didn’t give me much to work with, so I was wondering when you wanted to—”

“Actually, if I may,” Crowley interrupts, removing his sunglasses and placing them on the table, “I won’t be sharing the details with you just yet.”

Sam frowns. “But—”

“I haven’t got enough to convict, that much I know. So I don’t have any use for you at the moment, but I _will_ need you later, and with all the red tape involved in requesting an assistant with your qualifications, I thought it best to get you assigned to my case early on,” Crowley explains. “There’s also the fact that I don’t want those gunrunners to know that I have a lawyer in the wings, certainly not one so familiar with their… system, so it’d be nice if you could just lay low, perhaps stay in Stockton, for the time being.”

“Oh. So you’ve got nothing for me,” Sam says, a bit annoyed because he was in the middle of a case.

“Yes. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the break,” Crowley says. “Oh, but I would appreciate it if you kept your phone with you at all times, just in case I run into complications.”

“Okay, then,” Sam says.

“That’ll be all for today.”

Sam nods once, thinking, then says, “Wait, so you expect me to do nothing? I don’t know if they told you or not, but I was actually on a case when you requested my assistance.”

“And I’m sure that case was reassigned to another ADA hopefully as capable as you,” Crowley says with a smile. “Don’t worry; I counted your pay into my expenditures. You’re covered by the ATF.”

“Mhmm,” Sam grunts. That was definitely not his point, but he doesn’t feel like talking to this guy anymore. “So if I leave right now…”

“Feel free,” Crowley answers.

“Okay, then. I’ll see you later,” Sam says, getting to his feet.

“Yep,” Crowley says cheerfully, putting his sunglasses back on. Yeah, definitely a douchebag.

Sam leaves the café feeling annoyed. His time would be much better spent back on his case, damn it.

But since he’s here already, he might as well drop by the hospital and see if he can hang around in Dean’s office for an hour or two, maybe even bum lunch off him.

* * *

Cas heads down the hall toward Jimmy’s sickroom, feeling slightly guilty. He’s never missed a meeting with Jimmy T before, not since he stepped up and became VP, but he really didn’t want to be there today, wanted to come by and see his brother instead.

He doesn’t bother signing in with the front desk because they recognize him as Jimmy’s twin, and when he gets to his brother’s sickroom, he’s surprised to see through the shutters that someone’s in there with him—Meg.

Oh, god. That was a messy breakup at the time, but they’ve since agreed that they didn’t suit each other.

Cas pushes open the door, knocking once as it swings inward. “Morning,” he says.

Meg jolts, startled, and looks over at him, but Jimmy’s smiling.

“Hey, Cas,” Jimmy says. “We were just talking about you.”

“Yeah, ‘course you were,” Cas says suspiciously, because Jimmy and Meg conspiring has never meant good news for him. He’s pretty sure Jimmy was more upset than he was when he and Meg split up.

“Well, among other things,” Meg says, getting to her feet and coming over as Cas steps into the room. Her hands go up to the back of his head, pulling him forward and turning his head slightly so that she can press a quick kiss to his right jaw, and then she backs off, smiling.

Cas fixes her with a speculative look, because that’s a far friendlier greeting than the ones they’ve exchanged recently. Perhaps she wants to sleep with him. Cas considers it before figuring it’s a bad idea. The last thing he wants is for them to go back to anything like what they used to be, because it wasn’t what either of them wanted.

“How’re you feeling?” Cas asks, turning his eyes to Jimmy.

“Better,” Jimmy answers. “I’m just so bored. And I have to call a nurse just to help me go use the bathroom. It’s…” he shakes his head.

“You shouldn’t feel humiliated. You got hit by a _car_ ,” Cas says.

“When you got hit by a car, you walked away,” Jimmy says.

“I got lucky,” Cas says. And he hadn’t _walked_ away. It’d been more of a half-limp, half-crawl sort of effort, until Limey and Luce got to him.

Jimmy chuckles. “You always were the lucky twin.”

“Hey, you’re the one who’s got a successful job, a wife, and a kid,” Cas says. “All I’ve got is my bike.”

“Speaking of which, it’s about time you found yourself an old lady, don’t you think?” Jimmy says.

“I’m not looking,” Cas answers. “I’ll know her when I see her.”

“God, you don’t actually _believe_ that, do you?” Meg says, eyebrows raised.

“What can I say? Maybe some part of me still believes in fairy tales,” Cas responds lightly.

“All right, well, it was nice of you to stop by, but I kinda need the bathroom now, so you two should get out so I can call the nurse,” Jimmy says.

“I’ll help you,” Cas offers, but Jimmy waves him away, and Cas tries to ignore the disappointment at having his visit cut short. “You sure? It’s not like it’s anything I haven’t seen before—we _are_ identical.”

“Oh god, Meg, get him out of here. He’s disgusting,” Jimmy says, but he’s smiling, so Cas allows himself to be led out of the sickroom.

“Want me to wait ‘til you’re done?” Cas asks from the doorway.

“Nah, you go on. I’ve got the TV to keep me company,” Jimmy replies.

“Suit yourself, then,” Cas says. “I’ll see you later.”

He starts down the hallway, and Meg takes two quick steps to keep up. “How’re you holding up?” she asks gently.

“I’m fine,” Cas answers. “How ‘bout you? Everything going okay down there with the Amazons?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Meg says.

“You sure? I heard you were in town last night and the night before,” Cas says.

“I came up to visit Luce,” Meg starts, and then she says, “Tell you what—how about we go out for a cup of coffee, or lunch or something, and we can catch up a little? It’s been a while since we really had a chance to talk, just the two of us.”

They stop outside the hospital entrance, and Cas says, “Where do you wanna go?”

“Mm, Gemma’s,” Meg decides.

Cas smiles despite himself. That was one of his favorite places to go, growing up, and despite the bitterness that Dean’s departure cast over the place, his memories are still fond, in the end. “Sure.”

“Great. Last one there’s buying!” Meg shouts abruptly, dashing away toward her bike.

Cas huffs, amused, and walks over to his own bike.

Abstractly, he notes that he can already feel her charm, the lightness that he’d liked about her, enticing and inviting. This might not end well.

* * *

Dick has been sitting on a lawn chair in front of his estate on the outskirts of the city for about half an hour already when the Campbells finally decide to appear on the winding driveway that leads to the front of the house.

“You’re late,” is the first thing he says when Samuel and his nephew come up to him.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Samuel says. “Car trouble.”

Dick isn’t sure he believes that, but it doesn’t matter anyway. “Well, let’s make it quick. My wife has a guest coming at noon, and I seem to recall a certain someone wanting to keep this discreet.”

“The attack on Jimmy Novak wasn’t my doing,” Samuel says.

“It was my fault,” Robert says. “One of my sons thought that he was Cas Novak, and he acted without thinking about the consequences.”

“Well, we’re very fortunate that it _wasn’t_ Cas Novak, aren’t we?” Dick says.

“Yes, of course,” Robert says. “I assure you, it won’t happen again.”

“Your assurance does not count for much,” Dick says, eyes on the Campbell patriarch.

“I’ve spoken to the rest of the family, and they understand that they’re not to make a move until they have my say so,” Samuel says. “And I give you my word that I won’t move in on the Reapers until you say that you’re ready.”

“Very well,” Dick says. “Now, as for the splitting of your profit in Morada, the club has agreed to your terms. We’ll take twenty percent of your sales for the first year, for helping you win the territory. But if you want us to ensure your protection against the Demons, it’ll have to be twenty percent, consistently. And trust me: if the Demons get wind of the Reapers going down, they’ll no doubt make an attempt to expand into Morada.”

“I’ll have to talk it over with the rest of the family,” Samuel says.

“I’m sure,” Dick says, even though he knows very well that Samuel Campbell runs a tight ship and that he squashes any opinions that differ from his. “Now, do you have any concerns to share with me? If not, I’m afraid I have to go indoors and join my wife in waiting for her guest.”

“I think that was everything,” Samuel says.

“Pleasure doing business with you, then,” Dick says with a small smile, getting to his feet and sticking out his hand. He shakes hands with Samuel first and Robert second, and then the two men turn back to their car and get inside.

Dick watches them drive away with distaste before turning to go into the house.

He’s never liked their type, all about the good of the “family” when really they operate as much on money as any other organization. They think that their “morals” give them some sort of high ground, rights to look down on anyone else who doesn’t have this sense of “family.” But cool efficiency and ruthless execution are far more effective than some misplaced sense of duty to a supposed _family_.

Dick knows that much from experience.

* * *

Parked on the shoulder of the road leading to the turnoff that would take her to the Roman estate, Lenore takes out her phone and checks the time. It’s about eleven forty-five, so she should probably wait a few minutes before actually driving in.

Not one minute later, she hears the engine of a car—probably an old truck, judging by how loud it is—coming her way from along the turnoff. Wondering who would be coming from the estate right now, Lenore lifts her phone and prepares to snap a picture.

As predicted, a truck rolls into sight moments later, and Lenore takes several pictures in quick succession before the truck turns away and drives down the lane, away from her. The driver had been a bald man, unfamiliar to Lenore, and she wonders if she may have just taken a picture of two men who were just working at the manor. Maybe their job is to clean the pool or something. That’d be a funny story to tell, except that giving Azazel the wrong information could definitely get someone killed.

But upon taking a second look at the pictures, Lenore sees that there’s a weird symbol painted on the door that doesn’t look like something a pool cleaner or a gardener would paint on the side of his truck.

Azazel will probably know what it means, Lenore thinks, putting her phone away and starting the car again. It should be fine if she arrives a couple minutes early. Knowing Susan, she’s been ready and waiting for Lenore’s arrival since eleven fifteen.

* * *

A tap on Dean’s open door draws his attention, and he sees Andrea in the doorway, smiling at him. “Hey there, worker bee. Mind if I come in for a minute?”

“No, not at all, Dr. Barr,” Dean says, and she smiles again.

“You know, Dean, being a surgeon and all, I expected you to be better at remembering names than this,” Andrea says, ignoring the seat in front of Dean’s desk and opting to walk over to his side of the desk, leaning back against the edge of it.

Dean chuckles. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Well, I was wondering if—”

There’s another knock on the door, and Dean leans back in his seat a little to see Sam leaning into the room, just a little. “Oh uh, am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Dean says automatically, but when his eyes swing back to Andrea’s, she looks a little disappointed. She levers herself away from his desk and walks toward the door.

“Hey, you don’t have to go—I can wait,” Sam offers.

“No, it’s fine,” Andrea says. “Work comes before pleasure, right?”

“Oh! No, I’m his brother,” Sam says.

“ _Oh_ ,” Andrea says. “Oh, you must be Sam, then. Nice to meet you. I’m Andrea.”

They shake hands, and Dean resists the urge to sigh. He’s relieved that he didn’t have to let her down easy—he’s really not looking for any sort of relationship right now—but now Sam’s gonna have someone to use as an example of what Dean should be looking for.

“Anyway, I’ll let you two catch up. Dean said you haven’t seen each other in a while.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Sam says. “Thanks, then. I’ll see you around.”

Andrea exits the room, and Sam walks in, taking the seat in front of Dean’s desk.

“All right, let’s hear it,” Dean says.

“Hear what?”

“Don’t play dumb. Let’s just get this over with.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything, honest,” Sam says. “I was thinking, we oughta go out and grab lunch, since I’m in town.”

“What, you’re finished with your meeting already?” Dean asks.

“Oh. Yeah, that was over with real quick,” Sam says, frowning.

“You look all pouty and disappointed. What happened?”

Sam shoots Dean an indignant look. “I do not look… _pouty_.”

“Sure, of course you don’t,” Dean says. Looking down at his watch, he says, “Well, I guess I could take off for lunch right now. Anywhere in particular you wanna go?”

“Well, anywhere but Café Delaney, because I was just there,” Sam says.

“Okay uh, how ‘bout Gemma’s Diner? Haven’t been in years,” Dean suggests. “And you loved their big salads, didn’t you?”

Sam smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Okay, you wanna meet up there?”

“Why take two cars when we can take one? ‘Sides, you haven’t said hi to Baby in forever.”

Sam laughs at this and gets to his feet, exiting the room first and waiting for Dean to lock up. “Don’t you ever feel sad that the longest, most committed relationship you’ve ever had in your life is with your car?” Sam teases as they start down the hall.

“Nope, not one bit,” Dean responds easily.

It’s not true, anyway. One-sided as it is, Dean’s been committed to Cas since way before Baby was in the picture. He hadn’t thought it was anything, had thought his attraction to guys as well as girls was just the way he was wired, but eventually he’d realized that he was really only attracted to guys who reminded him of Cas.

Oh, he’d tried to change that, tried to convince himself that he was into all guys and not just Cas-type guys, had even tried getting involved with some guy who was practically Cas’s exact opposite, but—

Well, it’s over now, thank god, and that’s all that matters.

“Dean, you okay?” Sam asks as they walk out of the hospital.

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” Dean says, leading the way over to the Impala and getting in the driver’s seat. As they pull out of the hospital parking lot, he asks, “What’s new with you, then? Apart from the case, I mean.”

“Uh, not much,” Sam says. “I mean, it’s just been work, mostly.”

“Anything in the relationship area?” Dean asks, and when Sam shoots him a disbelieving face, he says, “What? Oh, so you can pester me about how I’m not hitched yet, but I can’t ask whether or not you’ve tricked some unsuspecting girl into putting up with you?”

Sam huffs, trying not to show his amusement, but Dean can see him smiling from the corner of his eye. “Yeah, okay,” Sam says. “I met someone.”

“All right, who is she?” Dean asks.

“Her name is Ruby,” Sam says. “She’s… great.”

Dean waits for Sam to go on, but when nothing else comes, he says, “Great. That’s all you’re giving me—great.”

Laughing, Sam says, “Just— _give_ me a minute, okay? I don’t know where to begin.”

“Is she good in bed?” Dean asks, and Sam immediately punches him in the shoulder. “Ow!” Dean yelps, recoiling a little. “Hello, _driving_ here. You wanna die?”

“What do you wanna know about her?” Sam asks.

“I don’t know,” Dean says, shrugging. “How ‘bout we meet up sometime? I mean hey, we’re close enough to see each other on a regular basis, now.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam says, smiling a little. “You should come over, then. Like next week, maybe?”

“Sure,” Dean says. “Wait—has this girl—”

“Ruby,” Sam supplies.

“—Ruby, has she moved in with you?”

Sam hesitates for a moment, but it’s answer enough, and Dean can’t help but grin.

“Damn, Sammy, you sure move fast,” he comments. “When’d you meet this girl, anyway?”

“I don’t know, two months ago?”

“Wow. And you never thought to mention her to me?”

“You never asked!” Sam says defensively.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” Dean admits. As he makes a right turn onto the street that Gemma’s is on, he says, “So, is she a halfway decent cook, or should I eat a little ahead of time? And by ‘halfway decent,’ I mean better than you.”

Sam smiles. “She’s about the same as me,” he answers.

“So I should eat ahead of time, then,” Dean says.

“We’ll probably just order in, Dean. She’s not gonna try to impress you with her cooking, I swear,” Sam says as they enter the small lot in front of Gemma’s.

They get out of the car, and Dean locks the doors before shutting his own door and crossing the lot toward the entrance to the diner. Just as he reaches the tinted door, it swings inward, and Dean’s startled to find himself face to face with none other than Cas Novak.

 _Shit_ , he barely stops himself from saying.

“Hello, Dean, Sam,” Cas says, apparently recovering from the shock a whole lot faster than Dean.

“Cas, hey!” Sam says from a step behind Dean, and Dean moves backward to let Cas step out—they probably shouldn’t block the entrance, anyway. And then—“Meg,” Sam adds, sounding even more surprised. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah. You clean up nice, boy,” Meg says—sure enough, she’s just followed Cas out of the diner.

Dean doesn’t really have eyes for her, far more interested in the way Cas is looking him over, but eventually he becomes aware that it’s all quiet between the four of them. Sam and Meg are definitely looking back and forth between Dean and Cas as though the world’s gonna implode any minute, so Dean coughs, ducking his head.

“So, Sam, what’re you doing in Morada?” Meg asks.

“Oh, y’know, just coming up to have lunch with my brother, now that he’s back in town,” Sam answers.

“Oh. That sounds… disgustingly sweet. I might puke,” Meg says.

What if Meg and Cas are… _together_ , or something? Meg always had a bit of a thing for Cas, despite the age difference. Dean suddenly becomes uncomfortably aware of the fact that Cas must have dated people before, that he could be dating someone even now. Someone like Meg. God, never mind Meg puking— _Dean_ might puke.

“When’s the last time you saw Peggy?” Sam asks.

“Oh god, I have no idea,” Meg answers. “Good ol’ Peg doesn’t like associating with us biker types, now that she’s gone and got herself all _edumacated_. She comes home now and then to see Daddy, but she doesn’t talk to me anymore.” Glancing between Sam and Dean, she says, “At least you Winchesters aren’t completely classist, eh?”

“Guess not,” Sam says when Dean doesn’t answer.

“I should probably thank you for taking care of Jimmy,” Cas says out of the blue, and suddenly all eyes are on Dean, waiting for his response.

Why the hell is this so _difficult?_

“Just doing my job,” Dean answers with a small nod.

“He looked a lot better today.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

An awkward silence falls between them, and then Meg says, “Well, we oughta leave you two to your lunch. Cas?”

And fuck if that doesn’t sound all relationship-y.

“I’ll see you around, then,” Cas says, eyes flicking briefly to Sam before landing back on Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean says, grateful for his poker face because he’s _pretty_ sure he’s not giving anything away.

And then Meg is slipping her arm around Cas’s and pulling him away from the restaurant, toward their bikes. Dean quickly looks away, turning toward the door and pushing it open. He and Sam walk into the diner and find a booth by the window.

A waiter follows them there and sets two menus down in front of them. “Can I start you two off with anything to drink?”

“Just water, thanks,” Sam says.

“Uh, yeah, same,” Dean says absentmindedly.

“Okay, then,” the waiter says, leaving the table.

“ _Christ_ , that was awkward,” Dean says, slumping a little in his seat.

“Yeah. Tell me about it,” Sam says, pushing some stray locks of hair behind his ears. “Do you think they’re… y’know, together? _Together_ , together, I mean.”

“Sorry, but are you _ever_ gonna cut your hair? You look like a mutt.”

“What? I do not—no, don’t change the subject on me,” Sam says, because damn it, he’s wise to all of Dean’s avoidance tactics by now. “Cas and Meg—what do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Dean answers, shrugging. “It’s none of my business.”

“Uh huh, right. That’s why you looked like you swallowed a lemon out there,” Sam says.

“The hell are you talking about? I’ve got an awesome poker face,” Dean protests, but when Sam gets this triumphant look on his face, he realizes that he walked right into that one.

“So you _did_ have feelings about them walking out of here together,” Sam concludes.

“Look, can you not—” Dean shakes his head. “I am not involved with Cas, and I’m not _planning_ to get involved with Cas. So can you just get off my case about him already?”

Sam sighs. “I believe you, but… it’s just, you haven’t had the best streak with controlling yourself, you know?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean that you’re kinda impulsive,” Sam says. “You make spur-of-the-moment decisions and then just go through with them. Chicago, Dean? That was _very_ impulsive. And your decision to come back, all of a sudden? I just don’t know if I believe that you’re not gonna spontaneously decide to… to pursue Cas.”

“ _Pursue?_ ” Dean repeats, frowning. “I’m not _pursuing_ him.”

“Not right now, you’re not,” Sam says. Dean shakes his head, disbelieving, and Sam says, “I’m just worried. Not to say that I wasn’t worried before, but now… now, I’m working this case, and I don’t know what’s gonna happen if you get involved. I won’t just look the other way, Dean. I talked to the ATF agent today, and he was a douche, but he definitely looked like he knew what he was doing.”

“You done?” Dean says.

Sam rubs at his forehead, annoyed. “Yeah, okay. I’m done.”

“Okay. I’m just gonna say this one more time: I am _not_ going to get involved with the Reapers, or with Cas. Now can you please get your panties untwisted so we can stop having this conversation?”

There’s a light cough from Dean’s left, and oh, the waiter’s back.

“Do you uh, need a couple more minutes?” he asks timidly.

“Yeah, that’d be great—thanks,” Sam says, and the waiter sets their waters down with a flourish before beating it outta there.

“Did I scare him?” Dean asks, frowning.

“I don’t know, Dean. You can get a little intimidating when you’re all growly like that,” Sam says, clearly amused. “I mighta peed a little,” he adds with a chuckle, because he’s a douchewad.

“Oh, shut up,” Dean says, picking up the menu to see if anything’s changed.

* * *

The tall man who follows Dean into the restaurant is safe. Alastair has seen him in pictures before, and he knows that this is Dean’s little brother—well, _younger_ brother. Sam Winchester certainly could never be described as “little.”

He watches them through the window, talking, and is relieved that Sam, at the very least, doesn’t pose a threat. No, what _does_ worry him is the exchange Dean and his brother had with those two bikers.

Alastair knows a little something about Dean’s past—he’s looked up his history, and he knows that his dad, John Winchester, was a member of Reapers MC who died over twenty years ago. Dean’s probably back here, looking to his roots, trying to escape from Alastair because he doesn’t understand what’s best for him, doesn’t understand that _Alastair_ only wants what’s best for him.

He’s here because he’s confused, basically. Confused and scared—Alastair might have come on a little too strong, might’ve scared him. So he has to be more careful this time, has to look before he leaps so that Dean doesn’t go running again.

But that biker club is bad news for Alastair, and for Dean. He doesn’t recognize the woman, but she’s irrelevant—Dean barely even spared a glance in her direction. Alastair does, however, know the face of Cas Novak, current vice president of the Reapers; he saw his picture when he was doing some research into the club. Cas is only one year younger than Dean, and their parents were close, once upon a time.

This means Dean and Cas probably grew up together.

Would Dean even be interested in Cas Novak? The man is all posturing, no strength behind it. He lacks conviction. He’s… _pretty_ , objectively speaking. Alastair wouldn’t mind those pretty blue eyes looking up at him out of a bloodied face… but he’s not Dean. No, _Dean_ is something special.

Cas wouldn’t be able to take care of Dean, not like Alastair can.

Not like Dean so obviously needs.

Content that Dean is safe in this diner with his little brother, Alastair starts his car and pulls away from the curb. After a moment of consideration, he starts toward Morton-Novak, because that is supposedly where the Reapers headquarters are located. He’ll probably circle the block a few times, find a place that’s inconspicuous, and wait there.

He needs to assess whether or not Cas Novak poses a threat to Dean.

* * *

“He’s late,” Pesty says, scowling impressively.

“Cut him some slack. He’s never been late before,” Jimmy responds.

“You know how I feel about tardiness, War.”

Jimmy laughs. “You’re getting ornerier with your old age,” he comments. Pesty doesn’t answer, but that’s only because Jimmy’s right.

Then they hear the motors on the wind, and not a minute later, the Reapers arrive on the turnoff, four bikes riding in front of a pickup. Jimmy watches as Jules gets off his bike, removing his helmet as he does so, but when he glances at the other three riders, he notes that the favored son is not among them. That’s different.

“Ah, at long last, the Grim Reaper himself,” Jimmy says anyway, lifting his arms as Jules approaches.

“Jimmy, brother,” Jules says, stepping into his embrace. Turning toward Pesty, he says, “Sorry—we ran into a bit of trouble back at the shop.”

“Did it have anything to do with the fact that your VP isn’t here?” Jimmy asks.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Jimmy T,” Bobby says, joining them. Mike and Luce follow close behind. “We all watched Cas grow up. You gotta understand how stubborn he can be.”

“His brother’s in the hospital,” Mike says.

“Oh, he isn’t,” Jimmy says, surprised. “What happened to Little Jimmy?”

“Got hit by a car. But it was a misunderstanding, and we’ve sorted it all out,” Jules says. Not by death, if the scowl on Luce’s face is anything to go by. “Is that reason good enough for Cas’s absence?”

“More than enough,” Pesty says before Jimmy can answer. “‘Sides, you and I know better than anyone else how many briefings War skipped when we were still serving.”

“Well, I came out of there alive, didn’t I?” Jimmy says.

“That you did,” Pesty says, nodding. “That you did.”

“All right, show me what you’ve got,” Jules says, moving the meeting along. Jimmy nods and leads the way around to the back of the truck they’ve been standing next to, and one of his workers opens up the back of it.

“All ten cases of AKs, here,” Jimmy says. He gestures for two workers to enter the truck and lower the first case for inspection—it’s just standard routine now, something they go through even though they’ve developed enough trust that it shouldn’t be strictly necessary.

Jules takes a quick look when the case is opened, pushing aside the hay to pull out the first AK nestled in the box.

“Need earplugs?” Jimmy asks.

“I’m not gonna shoot it,” Jules answers, shaking his head. “I just want to feel it in my hands.”

“Have at, then,” Jimmy says, watching as Jules bounces the rifle once, twice, and then lifts it to take a look through the scope.

The two men who arrived in the pickup have joined them by then, one of whom Jimmy identifies as Gabe Spate. The other is a prospect, and Jimmy is certain that he’s seen the boy before, but the only name he can remember right now is Alf, and this isn’t him.

“All right, we’ll take ‘em,” Jules announces, setting the gun back down in its place. “Boys, get the bags.”

Gabe and the prospect jog back toward the pickup to get the money, and Jimmy’s workers close up the crate to put it back in the truck.

“So, what happened to Little Jimmy… is that anything we’ve gotta worry about?” Pesty asks.

“And do you think you’ll be needing some more hardware, for yourselves, maybe?” Jimmy adds.

“Don’t you worry ‘bout Little Jimmy. He’s fine, and the threat’s been taken care of,” Jules says. “Though we probably could stock up on our own hardware. Go on and add an extra crate to the next shipment.”

“All right. Three weeks from now?” Jimmy asks.

Jules nods. “I’ll call if we need to reschedule.”

“Always good to see you, brother,” Pesty says in farewell.

Gabe takes the keys from Jimmy’s truck driver and climbs up into the driver’s seat to wait, and Jimmy sees the bags of money loaded up into the back of his van before nodding to Jules. The Reapers mount their bikes, while the prospect gets back into the pickup, and then the four bikers lead the way back toward the highway, followed by the pickup and the truck of guns.

“Come, my belligerent friend. We should be going,” Pesty says, and Jimmy turns to see that his friend has already climbed into the van.

Jimmy nods and gets in as well, sliding the door closed behind him. The driver up front starts the car, and as they drive out, Jimmy looks out the back window at the cloud of dust trailing behind them.

* * *

Samuel Campbell appears right on time, walking down the street casually. He comes toward Crowley’s car, looking slightly wary, but Crowley isn’t worried. This is their first meeting in person—of course he’s going to be wary. Crowley merely has to reassure him that he’s not here to close down the Campbell family operation. As long as he has some support in taking down the Reapers, he can look the other way when it comes to the Campbells’ extracurricular activities.

Samuel ducks into the car, and Crowley smiles at him. “Hello, Samuel.”

“What’s with the sunglasses?” Samuel asks, not bothering to hide his disdain. “Your windows are already tinted enough, aren’t they?”

“Would it make you more comfortable if I took them off?”

“Probably, yeah.”

“That’s why I wear them,” Crowley says with another quick smile. “Now, tell me how the meeting went with Dick.”

“He’s still in as long as we don’t do anything reckless,” Samuel says. “And he doesn’t know anything about your involvement.”

“Excellent,” Crowley says.

“You do realize that he has his own gun supply though, don’t you?” Samuel asks, frowning.

“It’s none of my concern,” Crowley says airily. “Leviathans MC is buying their guns from overseas and shipping them in themselves. It’s still illegal, of course, but no selling of firearms is happening on our soil, so we haven’t deemed them as big a problem. The Reapers, however, are both buying _and_ selling, and we can’t have that.”

It’s bullshit, and really, Crowley would like to take all the fuckers down, but he knows when to put his foot down and when to do as he’s told, and in this case, he feels it’s only a matter of time before they start in on the Leviathans, anyway.

“All right. So the plan is to… what, get the Reapers involved in a gunfight with the Leviathans?”

“That could work,” Crowley says, “but it’d be messy. I’d like to avoid a mess, if at all possible. Convince the Leviathans to give them a squeeze. We just need to get them moving, active. They’re more likely to make a mistake, that way.”

“Mhmm,” Samuel grunts. “You don’t think they’re active enough already?”

“Oh, this is nothing. I’m sure you’ve seen far worse in your time here,” Crowley says. “But the winds are changing, my friend.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Samuel asks suspiciously. “No one knows about our arrangement.”

“Perhaps not yours and mine, but I doubt your partnership with the Leviathans has gone unseen. After all, nothing is secret,” Crowley says. “When you try to establish your trade in Morada, don’t you think the other gangs will notice? The Demons in Stockton, even the ‘Nines in Oakland, will want a piece of the new territory. And if they cannot take Morada, why not try Lodi? Their numbers are greater than yours, and you’ll need a strong friend when they come knocking.

“Of course, you’ve considered this already—it’s the reason why you pitched that sweet deal to Dick Roman in the first place. But I’d advise you to watch your back. When the other gangs find out, and they will, you can be sure at least one of them will go to the Leviathans. My money’s on the ‘Nines.”

After a pause, Samuel says, “I guess I wouldn’t put it past that bastard to double-cross me. Thanks for the warning.”

“You’re very welcome.”

* * *

It’s surprisingly relaxing to just lie in bed and watch a cat fail to catch a mouse in a million ways, Jimmy thinks. In theory, it sounds extremely boring, but the sense of nostalgia definitely helps.

A knock on the open door distracts him from the TV, and he smiles. “Sam! I’m surprised to see you.”

“Hey,” Sam says, coming into the room and pushing the door closed behind him. “You look better than I’d expected, for being run over by a car.”

“Yeah, shame I won’t have any battle scars,” Jimmy says with a mock-grimace.

Sam sits down and glances at the TV. “Still into _Tom and Jerry_?”

“Oh, yeah. Big, big fan,” Jimmy says, chuckling. Sam laughs too, and he looks… good. He’s really grown into himself, isn’t the lanky, too-tall-looking boy whom Jimmy remembers from their teen years.

“So, are your clients pissed that you can’t help them out?” Sam asks.

“It’s fine. Just means my partner has some slack to pick up,” Jimmy responds. “We share most case files, so he’s fully capable of taking my place in most areas, as I’d be able to do for him.” Really, the only client for whom Jimmy is irreplaceable is the MC; no matter how much Jimmy claims that Roger is reliable, Jules refuses to trust him.

“Oh, that must be a relief,” Sam says.

“Yeah,” Jimmy agrees. Then he asks, “How is work at the DA’s office? I imagine it’s pretty hectic.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam says, eyes going shuttered for a bit. “Uh, how’s Amelia? And uh, Claire, was it?”

“They’re both doing all right. This was really unexpected, but I think they’re dealing with it as well as they can,” Jimmy answers. “How about you? Have you met anyone special yet?”

Sam huffs a laugh, but there’s a hint of fondness in his eyes as he responds, “There’s someone, but I don’t know if she’s the one yet. It’s too early to tell.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good to hear. If she’s the one, you’ll have to bring her by.”

“For sure,” Sam says with a smile.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, content to watch Tom as he plans an extensive trap and waits for Jerry to step into it.

“Actually, I uh, I was wondering,” Sam starts hesitantly, and when Jimmy looks over, his face is downturned, gaze focused on his hands, which are clasped together in his lap. “Is… I mean, obviously Cas knows that Dean’s back in town.”

Ah, Jimmy probably should have expected the conversation to take this turn.

“I was just wondering whether or not Cas and Meg are an item,” Sam says, finally lifting his head again to look at Jimmy.

“They aren’t, but they were in the past,” Jimmy answers carefully, not entirely sure where Sam lands on this issue. “Sam, we both know the… the history that Dean and Cas share, but the two of you worked so hard to get away from this club, and I really don’t think it’d be a good idea if—”

“Oh no, don’t worry—I’m right with you,” Sam says. “God, the last thing I want is for Dean to get involved with the club again.”

Jimmy lets out a sigh of relief. “Okay, so we’re on the same page.”

Sam laughs, a lot more relaxed now. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely. That’s really good to know,” he says. “It’s just—Dean keeps reassuring me that he doesn’t want to go anywhere near Cas anymore, but I know him better than anyone, and he’s definitely not over Cas.”

That’s a strange way of putting it, seeing as _Dean_ was the one who did the leaving, but Jimmy has enough tact to know that he shouldn’t point that out. “Yeah, it’s… it’d be best for them both if they didn’t come into contact with each other often,” he says. Then he asks, “How did you know about Meg?”

“Oh, Dean and I ran into her and Cas when we went to lunch. It was kinda awkward, to be honest.”

“I can imagine,” Jimmy says.

“Anyway, I figured I’d come talk to you for a bit, see what you thought about… about our brothers,” Sam says. “I’m glad to see you’re okay, and that we’ve got kind of a common goal.”

And yeah, it _does_ feel good to have someone else who believes the same thing that Jimmy does. “I feel the same way,” he says. “Thank you, Sam.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

They fall silent after that, content to watch the cat-and-mouse struggle onscreen.

* * *

Sitting in his squad car, Rufus tries to decide whether or not he’s making the right choice. Victor’s words from last night really hit home, and now he’s wondering whether or not he should still be protecting the MC. He’s been making hard calls throughout his entire career with Morada PD, and he remembers a time when it was so easy, when the line between right and wrong was the same as the one between legal and illegal.

Those lines have become blurred, distorted, and Rufus finds that more and more often, he’s been forced into a choice between what’s right, and what’s legal. When did those two things come into conflict?

He still remembers the first real case that shook up his perception of good and evil. He’d been working for four or five years at that point, but he was still considered relatively new to the precinct. While he’d been aware of the Reapers upon their formation, he hadn’t given them much thought. He’d even felt that they had a positive impact on the community at one point, because they eradicated drugs from the town. Besides, he’d grown up with the club founders—Charles Novak, Bobby Singer, and Joshua Brown—as well as the president’s old lady, Naomi Novak née Maddock, so how bad could the club be?

Soon after, rumors had started up about gunrunning, and Rufus had agreed with then-Chief Elkins that the Reapers had to be shut down. When two ATF agents that went by Uriel and Zachariah came onto the scene, Rufus had been excited to be working with “professionals.”

But then Mary Winchester had turned up.

Or, more specifically, Mary Winchester’s body had turned up. According to the coroner’s report, there was evidence of sexual assault by multiple assailants, pre- and postmortem. Cause of death was blunt force trauma from repeated blows to the back of the head.

Rufus had, of course, gone to speak to the victim’s immediate family—in this case, it was her husband, John Winchester. Her older son, Dean, had only been four years old. Little Sammy had only just hit the six month mark. John had been quiet—not uncooperative, just quiet, which was something Rufus had come to expect from members of the MC. When he went to Bobby and Charles for answers, they’d adamantly turned him down, claiming that they knew nothing.

Samuel Campbell, meanwhile, insisted that Mary’s death was John’s fault. It didn’t matter who the perpetrators were; if she’d stayed well away from John Winchester, she would have lived. Rufus hadn’t agreed aloud, but he’d internally echoed the sentiment.

Naomi had come to the station the next day, clearly shaken but unwilling to speak a word until she extracted a vow of secrecy from Rufus. Only after Rufus made his promise did Naomi tell him about what the ATF agents and their accomplices had done to Mary. They’d taken Naomi, too, but they hadn’t touched her—they forced her to watch Mary’s ordeal before sending her back with a message for the club to either give up their gun source or see all of the people they cared about thus treated.

Right and wrong had had nothing to do with legality, that day.

Rufus was the first person to find the ATF agents’ bodies. They’d each had the Reapers logo carved into their skin. Rufus had spent a good hour trying to decide what to do. He’d understood why these men had to die, understood what had propelled the club to this violence, and the memory of Naomi’s fearful face, her quiet request for him to help them, had been enough for him to cut away the logos, destroying the evidence.

He’d called in the crime afterwards, of course, and there’d been an extensive investigation, but nothing could be found linking the club to the murders. After Mary’s death and the deaths of the two ATF agents, the focus on gunrunning went down considerably, and Morada was left alone for a long while.

It’s been almost thirty years since, and Rufus has made hundreds, thousands of judgment calls, not all of them in favor of the Reapers. He’d like to think that he’s still as just as he once was, but he fears that he’s losing his touch. What if Victor’s right, and Morada doesn’t need the Reapers anymore?

Either way, Rufus thinks as he starts the car, it’d probably be a good idea to tell the club about the ATF coming into town. Things are calm right now, and the last thing he wants is another bloodbath. With any luck, he’ll be able to convince the Reapers to lay low until Agent Crowley leaves town.

He drives straight onto the lot of Morton-Novak and sees one of the prospects walking across the front of the garage, wrench in hand. The boy pauses and turns toward the squad car as it comes near, and Rufus recognizes him as the Pike boy. His parents died in a car crash several years ago, and the club has since adopted him as a member of the family.

“Hey, Chief,” he says as Rufus comes toward him.

“Hey, kid. Is Jules or Bobby in?” Rufus asks.

“Not right now. Aggie’s here, though,” Pike answers.

But before he can call for Aggie, Naomi appears from the office that connects to the garage, and she waves the boy away, walking toward Rufus with a small smile.

“Hello, Chief. You here to arrest me?” she asks as she reaches him.

“Depends. You done anything that warrants arresting?”

Naomi actually laughs at that. “Recently?” she shoots back, and Rufus smiles. “Really, though, Rufus, what are you doing here?”

“Well, I was hoping to talk to Jules or Bobby, but—”

“You know telling me’s the same,” Naomi says.

Rufus nods. “Yeah, you’re right. Well, there’s an ATF agent in town, and he’s here for the club. I don’t think he has anything, but I bet he’ll be keeping a close eye on you.”

Naomi’s eyes narrow. “When did he get here? What’s his name?”

“His name is Crowley. And he got in yesterday.”

“Why are you only telling me about it now, then?” Naomi demands sternly.

Rufus sighs. “It’s not easy, doing what I’m doing. You know that, don’t you? I have to—I have to balance what I know is best for the club with what I know is best for the town. I’m not just—I may have helped the club in the past, but that isn’t my default state.”

“Of course it isn’t. If it were, Limey would still be with us,” Naomi says.

“He broke the law.”

“We’ve all broken the law.”

“Naomi, I’m not here to argue. I just wanted to let the club know to be careful, at least ‘til the agent is out of town,” Rufus says, backing up a step and turning back toward his car. “That was all I had to say.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Naomi says, catching up with him and grabbing his elbow to stop him. “When did you get so touchy, hmm? I only asked a question.” When Rufus doesn’t respond, she says, “I’ll pass the message on to the guys—they’re out, right now. Thank you, Rufus.”

“You’re welcome, I guess,” Rufus says.

Naomi just nods, and when Rufus turns away again, she doesn’t stop him. He gets into his squad car, makes a U-turn, and drives off the lot.

* * *

The call comes in around four o’clock, when Azazel is sitting in his study, lost in thought.

“Lenore, darling,” he answers after checking the caller ID.

“Hi Azazel. I hope you’re well,” she says.

“Quite well. I’ll be better if you have some news for me,” Azazel says.

There’s a brief pause, and then Lenore asks, hesitantly, “You won’t be using this information to kill anyone, will you?”

“No, of course not. Don’t be silly,” Azazel says reassuringly, though he’s pretty sure Lenore knows that it’s not a promise anyway—he’s certainly killed before, based on information she provided for him. “Tell me what you found out.”

“Well, Susan wouldn’t say much, and Dick was actually there most of the time, so we didn’t get to talk on our own,” Lenore says, which is disappointing. “But I did catch sight of a pickup truck leaving the property when I was going there.”

“Who was it?” Azazel asks—this could turn out to be nothing, but it could also be everything.

“Well, I didn’t recognize the driver or his passenger, but I got a picture of the car. There was this symbol on one of the doors, but I couldn’t tell what it meant. I can send it to you now, if you’d like.”

“Please do,” Azazel says, smiling. “Did the driver happen to be bald?” he asks, because not many people put occult symbols on their car doors.

“Actually, yeah, I’m pretty sure one of them was bald,” Lenore responds. “Do you know him?”

“Yeah, I think so. Old friend of mine,” Azazel says. “Thank you _very_ much, darling. Come visit soon, all right? We miss you.”

“I will,” Lenore says.

Azazel hangs up then, pulling the phone away from his ear to wait for the picture. Sure enough, a moment later, he sees the Campbell crest captured in grainy detail on a car door. Suspicion confirmed, he scrolls down his contact list and calls Lilith.

“What is it this time, Azazel? I’m busy,” she says.

“I just thought you might be interested to hear that the Campbell family has probably reached an agreement with Leviathans MC. Any theories as to what they’d be planning?”

It’s quiet for a moment. “Well, shit,” Lilith finally says.

“We all knew this day was going to come eventually,” Azazel says, and it’s true—the day was always going to come when the Campbell family grew fed up with doing business out of town and decided to try and push the Reapers out of Morada.

“No, no, wait just a moment. How reliable is this information?” Lilith asks.

“Lenore saw the Campbells leaving Dick Roman’s estate in Lodi.”

“Maybe they were turned down,” Lilith suggests.

“Unlikely. Why would the Leviathans turn down a chance to take down the Reapers? They’ve been at odds for a long time,” Azazel reasons. “Now, I say we need to talk to Abaddon. If there’s going to be a shift in power, we can’t be left out.”

Lilith sighs heavily. “I hate that woman, _and_ her bitch.”

“Which is why I’ll be handling them,” Azazel says. “You just keep doing what you do best.”

“That I can do,” Lilith says. “I have Jake and Max with me right now, but you can go ahead and round up the others. Brady should be finishing up a deal. Don’t know where Ava is. And—”

“Ava and Brady will be enough. I’ll call them,” Azazel says.

“Well. Have fun with that viper.”

* * *

“…I couldn’t tell what it meant. I could send it to you now, if you’d like.”

Eli rounds the corner and sees his wife seated on one of the stools that surrounds the kitchen island. She’s leaning forward, elbow propped on the white granite surface, with her back facing Eli.

“Actually, yeah, I’m pretty sure one of them was bald,” she says into her phone. “Do you know him?”

There’s a pause while whoever’s on the other end responds, and Eli takes the time to sneak up behind her, putting his hands on her hips. She twitches, startled, but relaxes into it when he leans forward and a little bit to the side to kiss her temple.

“I will,” she says into the phone before hanging up.

“Who’s bald?” Eli asks.

“I actually have no idea,” Lenore says. “Just let me send a text.”

“Who were you talking to?” Eli asks, looking over his wife’s shoulder as she pulls up a picture and sends it to Azazel, which he supposes answers his question. She’s about to put her phone away when he frowns and snatches it from her.

“Hey!”

“Isn’t this the Campbell family crest? Where’d you get this picture?” he asks, holding the phone out of reach. It definitely is—the driver is unmistakably Samuel Campbell, and he _is_ bald.

“I went to Susan’s today, remember?” Lenore says. “Now give me back my phone.”

“And Susan is… Dick Roman’s old lady,” Eli recalls. “Oh Christ, the Campbell family is partnering up with the Leviathans. What else did you see?”

“Nothing,” Lenore answers. “They drove past me when I was heading there.”

Eli narrows his eyes at his wife. He hasn’t said much about it in the past, because she hasn’t ever actually done anything to hurt the ‘Nines, but he _really_ doesn’t like the relationship she has with Azazel. “So you basically showed Azazel exactly what you just showed me.”

“Yes.”

That means Azazel knows that the Campbells and Leviathans could be partnering up. Why would they even—right. Morada. All that untapped potential. Eli should take this information to Alpha. He’ll know what to do.

“Oh, Dick actually wanted me to tell you something,” Lenore says suddenly.

“Okay,” Eli says, already starting to leave the kitchen.

“He wanted you to go over sometime, said something about expansion. He didn’t give me any of the details, but he said that you’d know what to do,” Lenore says.

Eli contemplates that for a second. If the Leviathans really are in league with the Campbells… whatever, it doesn’t matter. Alpha will know what to do. “Thanks, baby,” he says, hurrying back over to Lenore and giving her a quick kiss. “I have to go talk to Alpha. You did good.”

As he leaves, he glances back and sees Lenore watching him, bemused.

Eli goes up to Alpha’s floor and finds him out on the balcony, relaxing. “Alpha,” he says, to alert his adoptive father of his presence.

“Eli.”

To this day, Eli still doesn’t know how Alpha can tell him and Benny apart without even looking at them. “Yeah, it’s me,” he says, moving over to sit in the chair next to Alpha’s. “Lenore went to Lodi today—specifically, to Dick Roman’s home. He’s invited me to go over, and he might have mentioned something about expansion, but Lenore also got a picture of Samuel Campbell leaving the estate before she arrived.”

“Is that all?”

“I think so, yes. It’s all that Lenore told me, anyway.”

“Go to Lodi, then,” Alpha decides. “Go now. Don’t let him know that we know about his meeting with the Campbells—he’ll probably want to surprise us with that detail when the time is right for him. Just tell him that I am interested and would not be opposed to meeting with him, face to face.”

“Got it,” Eli says.

“Be polite and sincere, but not obsequious.”

“I know,” Eli says with a smile. “You taught us how to handle ourselves.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Alpha says, finally looking over at Eli. “Go on, then. And buy a bottle of wine on your way there. You may be invited to stay for dinner.”

“Will do,” Eli says, getting to his feet.

He goes downstairs to get the address to Dick Roman’s place from Lenore, and then he heads out.

* * *

Meeting up with the Amazons is always kinda nerve-wracking. Brady knows a guy who knew a guy who pissed Abaddon off, and she cut his balls right off. No matter how many times Ava tells him that it’s just a rumor and that it isn’t true, Brady figures, better safe than sorry.

He _hates_ being dragged to meetings with the Amazons, _especially_ when they’re held at the clubhouse, because Abaddon is almost guaranteed to be there. The only relief he gets is the fact that he rarely ever has to speak. He only has to stand in the background and look imposing, but to be honest, he usually just tries his best not to look scared shitless.

“Where is she?” Azazel asks, tapping his fingers on the counter impatiently.

“She was on a ride when she got your call,” Ruby answers. “Should be back any minute now.”

Tammi and Casey are here too, casually ignoring the Demons in the room. Brady would be affronted, except that if he says or does anything stupid, he might get his balls cut off. Better just to stay quiet.

“Where’s Meg?” Ava asks, looking around, and oh, Brady hadn’t even noticed she was missing.

“Probably Morada. Where else?” Ruby says, disinterested.

Then the front door swings open, and Abaddon walks in, flanked by Bela on her right and Meg on her left. They’re dressed mostly in skintight black leather—Meg has leather pants, but she’s wearing a t-shirt and cut on top—which is an unbelievably good look on them. Bela is fucking magnificent, as always, all woman-y curves and tasteful makeup.

But Abaddon… god, she looks as terrifying as she does sexy, and Brady can’t help but avert his eyes as she passes by him to take a seat at one of the booths—the bar isn’t open for business until 6 PM on weekdays, so it’s empty except for the Demons and Amazons present.

“So, what news did your trusty… _child_ bring back to you?” Abaddon asks, gesturing for Azazel to sit down across from her.

Brady and Ava follow Azazel across the room, but they remain standing a few feet away, taking a cue from the other Amazons in the room, all of whom are standing now that their leader is here.

“ _Please_ don’t stand on ceremony,” Bela says, rolling her eyes and perching on a barstool across the room from Abaddon’s booth.

Casey and Tammi resume their seats, and Ruby stays where she is, leaning her elbows on the bar. Meg hops up onto a stool next to Bela. Brady doesn’t even realize that Ava has sat down until she tugs at the sleeve of his jacket. He collapses into a seat next to her, and only then does he realize that Azazel’s already talking to Abaddon, explaining that the Campbell family has likely entered an alliance with Leviathans MC.

“They mean to take Morada from the Reapers,” Azazel goes on. “And the last thing we want is for the Campbells to overstep their bounds and move down through Morada, because next they’ll turn their eyes this way, toward us. And if they’re partnered with the Leviathans, that puts you at risk, too.”

“Sound analysis,” Abaddon says. “But what if you’re wrong about this, and Dick Roman turned down the partnership with the Campbells?”

“Then we’ll have nothing to worry about. It’s best to be prepared, if it’s true,” Azazel says. “And I’m not talking about us striking first—at least, not just yet, anyway. But when we have more information, I think a preemptive strike might be the best way for us to keep Stockton. And who knows—we might even be able to expand into Morada ourselves.”

“Now, now, let’s not get greedy,” Abaddon says. “The last thing we need is something to cloud our judgment and ruin this for us.”

“Do you think the Reapers could be useful?” Bela asks. “They might ally with us if they realize that the Campbell-Leviathan alliance has its sights set on their turf, especially if we’re the ones to bring that information to them.”

“But do they have that level of confidence in us?” Azazel asks, looking over at Bela. “I think they’d question our motives in bringing them that information. They’d probably suspect its accuracy, too.”

“Don’t forget that Luce is Meg’s father,” Abaddon says, and she seems contemplative. In this moment, she doesn’t look _quite_ as scary as she usually does.

“Yes, of course,” Azazel says. “Then—if you’re not opposed, I suggest that Meg take this news to her father. He’s more likely to believe her, and the club is more likely to believe him. And if we have the Reapers on our side, we might even be able to take the Leviathans out entirely.”

“Greed, Azazel,” Abaddon chides, like she’s talking to a child, and it says something that Azazel doesn’t even say anything in his own defense. “Well, I’m not opposed. Meg… wait until after dinnertime to talk to your father. It’d probably be best for you to do it in person, so you’ll be riding back to Morada again, tonight.”

Meg nods mutely.

“That sounds good,” Azazel says, getting to his feet. “Let me know what happens.”

“Of course,” Abaddon says with a blood-red smile.

Azazel leads the way back out of the clubhouse, but it’s not until Brady’s safely behind the wheel in his car that he finally breathes easy. Ava just takes one look at him and bursts into laughter.

“Shut the fuck up,” Brady grumbles, starting the car and getting them the hell outta there.

* * *

Gwen sits down to dinner with the rest of her family—except for Johnny, who’s still laid up in his room because he’s a pussy. They don’t do this very often, which means that Samuel probably has something to say to everyone. It isn’t urgent enough to call a meeting, but it _is_ important enough that he wants to tell everyone face to face.

She’s surprised when Samuel just starts eating without actually announcing anything, but she figures it’ll come up at some point during dinner.

Sure enough, when they’re all finishing up, Samuel finally says, “I hope you all understand that what Johnny did two nights ago was very reckless and irresponsible.”

He pauses to look around the table, but no one comments. Of course no one comments—there’s nothing to say. Obviously Johnny didn’t think very hard before acting, and now he’s paid the price. End of story.

“We’re playing a high-stakes game right now, and we can’t afford to make stupid mistakes like the one he made on Tuesday night,” Samuel eventually goes on. “It is _imperative_ that every move go through me, because I know what I’m doing. The rest of you haven’t been in the game as long as I have, and you may think that you know better than me, but you don’t. That’s a fact.”

“What do you want us to do, for now?” Christian asks.

“Nothing. We’re going to maintain normal production and normal sales, give outsiders no reason to suspect anything,” Samuel says. “Also, one more thing: whenever any of you are in Lodi, I want you to keep an eye out for anyone from the Bloody ‘Nines. Especially the Lafitte twins.”

Gwen doesn’t remember most of the ‘Nines, but she does have an impression of the twins. There’d been some kind of a showdown a long while back, when she was still a kid. The ‘Nines had tried to take Lodi, but Leviathans MC had driven them out. The Lafitte twins had been deadly, and apparently no one could tell them apart. Gwen wonders if their wives ever get confused.

Everyone murmurs assent to Samuel’s orders, and then he tells them to clear the table. Mark gets to work on the dirty dishes in the sink, and Gwen puts together a dinner to bring upstairs to Johnny.

* * *

Just around six o’clock, Raph rolls into the lot in front of the clubhouse of the Reapers Original Charter with Sharpie and Ghoul close behind him. Raph has scarcely taken a few steps toward the clubhouse when the door opens, and out comes Jules, striding right toward him.

“You haven’t had cameras installed recently, have you?” Raph asks, looking around the lot.

“No cameras, just good timing,” Jules says, pulling Raph into a hug as he reaches him. “Thanks for coming on such short notice, brother.”

“Anything for you, Pres,” Raph responds, backing up—he got the call this morning and headed straight this way. He’d already been with Sharpie, and Ghoul was close by, so he joined them on the ride over.

Jules nods at Sharpie and Ghoul before leading them toward the clubhouse for drinks.

“Bobby, Cas—shit, it’s nice to see all o’ you,” Raph says, surveying the guys who’ve trailed out of the clubhouse after Jules. Everyone’s here… except—“Where’s Limey? I thought he was released already.”

“It’s a long story,” Mike says, stepping over to Raph and draping an arm across his shoulders. “We’ll fill you in later. First, it’s time for your homecoming dinner.”

“You boys oughta consider yourselves lucky. Naomi prepared it all herself,” Luce comments.

But before they can reach the clubhouse, two unfamiliar cars drive onto the lot, and Jules pauses, turning to look at the unexpected arrivals. Raph watches as a kinda thin white guy, at least a decade younger than him, gets out of the driver’s seat of the second car and opens up the back door.

A tall, dark man steps out, and _him_ Raph recognizes—Alpha Worthington, of the Oakland ‘Nines.

“Holy shit,” Bobby murmurs as Luce says, “The hell is _he_ doing here?”

Jules is already walking toward him, casual as ever, but Raph’s hands are itching at his sides, prepared to draw if need be. He’s got two guns in shoulder holsters, one shoved down the back of his jeans, and a couple knives hidden around his person—if shit goes down, he’s fucking prepared.

“Alpha,” Jules says amiably, spreading his arms out to either side. “I wasn’t expecting you here tonight.”

“Yes, I hadn’t been planning on making the trip myself, but life has a way of throwing you into the unexpected,” Alpha responds. “I apologize if I’m interrupting a celebration, but this really is a matter I would like to discuss with you in relative privacy, and in a less conspicuous area.”

Fuck if that doesn’t sound ominous.

“Jules—” Cas starts, stepping forward.

“It’s fine,” Jules says. “You wouldn’t come so far without reason. I’ll take a few of my boys with me. There’s a turnoff on the western side of town—you probably passed by it on your way in. We can take you there, if you’d like a private conversation.”

“That would be much appreciated,” Alpha says. He gets back into the car, and the driver shuts the door for him before getting back in up front. The two cars back out of the lot and into the street, idling there to wait for Jules.

Turning back to the club, Jules says, “Cas, Bobby, and Luce, you’re coming with me. Bobby, take the van. Alf, ride with him.”

“Jules, are you sure—” Mike starts.

“I’m sure,” Jules cuts him off. “The rest o’ you, enjoy your dinner. But if anything goes wrong and I call for backup, I want you on your bikes and ready to go within two minutes, understand?”

“Yeah, we got your back, Jules,” Mike says.

Jules nods curtly before heading over to his bike. He rides out flanked by his VP and Sergeant-at-Arms, and Bobby and Alf follow in the van.

“All right, you heard what he said,” Mike says. “It’s dinnertime, boys!”

* * *

Dick and Susan have just sat down for dinner when the doorbell rings.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Dick grumbles, getting to his feet. The front door is much too far away from the dining room, but Dick hasn’t bothered to install an intercom system yet. But when he opens the door, his anger dissipates almost immediately, because one of the Lafitte twins—Eli, most likely—is standing on his doorstep with a bottle of red wine.

“Sorry to come crashing in like this, but do you have room for one more?” Eli asks, smiling.

“Yes, of course,” Dick says, letting Eli into the house. “I saw your wife just this afternoon, and you’re more than welcome to join us for dinner. Really, you could have brought her along with you.”

“Ah well, you know how it is. She’d already made the drive once today, and that was more than enough for her,” Eli says, following Dick into the dining room. “Hello, Susan,” he says.

“Oh, what a nice surprise!” Susan says. “Will you be joining us?”

“If it’s not an imposition,” Eli answers.

“No, not at all,” Susan says, getting up to fetch another place setting.

“So, I hadn’t expected you to come straight here when I extended that invitation to Lenore today. I’m assuming Alpha has an answer for me,” Dick says.

“He does indeed,” Eli replies. “Alpha wanted me to tell you that he’s interested, and that he would like to meet with you, face to face.”

“Ah, that’s very promising,” Dick says as Susan returns to the room.

“I think so, too. Partnering with the ‘Nines will be infinitely more useful than partnering with the Campbells, at any rate,” Eli says as Susan sets a plate and utensils down in front of him, and Dick immediately stiffens in his seat, because no one is supposed to know about that—how does _Eli_ know?

“How did you come by that information?” Dick asks, though he already has his suspicions.

When Eli says nothing, face carefully blank, Dick thinks he can be certain that it was Lenore. How she found out about the alliance Dick honestly does not know, but it can’t have been anyone else, not unless the Campbells have been publicizing their new cooperative relationship.

“It’s all right,” Dick says with a faint smile. “Information is power, after all. I don’t blame you for attempting to get this information. You are right, where it matters: the ‘Nines are more worthy allies than the Campbells, indeed.”

Eli lets out a relieved huff and says, “You scared me.”

“Yes, well. You deserved to be scared, for sending your wife here to spy on me,” Dick says. “I sincerely hope it won’t be happening again.”

“Definitely not,” Eli says.

“Well, I’ll take the matter to the club, and after that, I’ll ask Alpha to meet. It’s been a long time since we last saw each other,” Dick says.

“All right, are you done, yet?” Susan says. “I’d rather not talk business at the dinner table.”

“You aren’t doing any of the talking, technically,” Dick points out.

“It’s all right,” Eli says. “Tell me how the move went—moving never goes smoothly. I’m sure you each have at least one story to tell.”

Oh, Dick could tell a whole dozen and more. But he lets his old lady go first, because he’s chivalrous like that.

* * *

“Don’t be too loud when we get in there, all right? We don’t know whether or not Daddy’s awake,” Mommy says when they reach the door.

“I know,” Claire says, waiting patiently for Mommy to open the door.

She knocks twice before pushing the door open, and Claire peers into the room, hoping that Daddy’s up.

“Claire,” he says, and she hurries into the room and over to his bedside.

“Hi, Daddy,” she says, grabbing his hand because she knows he’s hurt, knows she can’t just crawl onto the bed and sit on him like she usually does.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Daddy says, smiling. “What’re you doing here?”

“Mommy and I brought dinner here so we could eat with you.”

“Aw, that’s sweet of you,” Daddy answers. Mommy fiddles with some buttons on the side of the bed, and then the upper half of the bed is tilting up, until Daddy’s sort of sitting up.

“Does it hurt?” Claire asks.

“Only a little,” Daddy says as Mommy goes around to the other side of the bed and flips a tray table up over it. It’s kinda awesome, and Claire wishes she could use it. But then, she doesn’t want to be hit by a car, and if she has to pick between getting hit by a car and not being able to use the cool table, she’d totally go with not using the cool table, because getting hit by a car must hurt.

“Claire, can you bring me the bag?” Mommy asks.

Claire nods, letting go of Daddy’s hand to pick up the bag of food. She’s excited about it because they don’t get to eat takeaway often, and she loves the eggrolls from Wong Ching’s.

“How was school today?” Daddy asks as Mommy takes out some of the boxes and sets them down in front of him.

“Oh, it was okay,” Claire says, biting her lower lip. “Aidan was being a big jerk, so Krissy—”

“Claire, what have we said about you not using bad words?” Mommy scolds.

“That’s not _fair_ ,” Claire protests. “You and Daddy get to use bad words, and Uncle Cas says the F word all the time.”

Mommy gives Daddy a _look_ , and Claire doesn’t really know what it means, but she seems to do it a lot whenever Claire mentions Uncle Cas. Sometimes she gets the sense that Mommy doesn’t like Uncle Cas, but how can she _not_ like him? Uncle Cas is awesome and rides a cool bike and looks just like Daddy, except cooler.

“Why was Aidan being a—being mean?” Daddy asks.

“He said that you _deserved_ to be hit by a car,” Claire says, and just remembering it makes her mad. “No one _deserves_ to get hit by a car,” she adds. “Except for those guys Uncle Cas shoots at, because he only shoots at people who are bad.”

“Claire, what are you talking about?” Mommy demands, and she sounds angry. “Has Uncle Cas been waving a gun around in front of you?”

“No,” Claire says, confused. “I only asked if he ever shot anybody. He said he only shoots at bad guys, like the bad guy who hit Daddy with a car.”

“Jimmy,” Mommy says quietly, “are you hearing this right now?”

“What, Mommy?” Claire asks, worried. “Does Uncle Cas _not_ shoot at bad guys?”

“Uncle Cas doesn’t just go around shooting people,” Daddy says.

“Well I know _that_ ,” Claire says, rolling her eyes. “But who gets the bad guys if Uncle Cas doesn’t get them? The police are useless.”

“Oh my god, Claire, did Uncle Cas tell you that?” Mommy asks.

“Amelia, can you _please_ stop trying to pin everything that Claire hears on Cas?” Daddy asks. “Claire, where did you hear that?”

“Are you guys mad? I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, we’re not mad,” Daddy insists, holding out a hand for Claire to take. “I just wanna know where you heard the thing about the police.”

“From Krissy, of course. Her daddy got shot in the head by bad guys, and they got away with it because the police are useless,” Claire says. “But Uncle Cas got the bad guy who hit you with a car, right?”

“See?” Daddy says to Mommy before turning back to Claire. “Uncle Cas said that the bad guy won’t hurt us again, but I don’t think Uncle Cas shot him, all right?”

“Then what did he do? Don’t bad guys need to be taught a lesson? Otherwise they just stay bad.”

“Let’s not discuss this anymore,” Mommy says. “Here, Claire, have some eggrolls.”

Claire chews on her bottom lip, worried. If the bad guy is still alive, how can Daddy be so sure that he won’t come back and hurt him again? But she takes the eggrolls from Mommy and gingerly climbs up onto the edge of the bed next to Daddy, sitting down with her legs dangling off the side.

Daddy smiles at her, and Claire hopes he’ll be able to come home soon. Uncle Cas is _awesome_ , but it’s just not the same when Daddy’s not home, even if Uncle Cas looks just like Daddy.

* * *

It takes only a few minutes for Richard to explain to Jules and his men that the Campbells have likely teamed up with the Leviathans, hoping to expand into Morada. Jules brings up the Demons before Richard can even suggest it, which he supposes is to be expected—Jules has always had a brilliant mind.

Of course, that brilliant mind could potentially put a stop to Richard’s plan before it even starts. He hopes to ally with the Reapers in Morada and then the Leviathans in Lodi so that he can take Lodi for the ‘Nines. Allying with the Reapers before the Demons and Amazons can get to them is a measure for blocking the Demons’ easy access to Lodi, and allying with the Leviathans can only mean good things for both sides—Richard has plenty of influence in Oakland, so if the Leviathans are prepared to start a charter in Oakland, Richard could make it happen.

If Jules sees through this all, and he very well might, he’ll want to benefit from this shift in power in some way. After all, it’s only going to bring trouble for him if he has to deal with Demons and Amazons coming his way to get to Lodi, and if the ‘Nines can successfully push the Campbells out of Lodi, they’ll no doubt try to find ways to distribute in Morada.

“There was a minor incident between our MC and the Campbells recently,” Jules confides. “But we’ve resolved it already, and I don’t think they had Leviathan support—otherwise, they would’ve taken bigger action, I’m sure.”

“There are a few younger members of the Campbell family,” Richard reasons. “It could have been one of them, jumping the gun.”

Jules shoots a suspicious look in his direction, but Richard doesn’t blame him—his guess probably hit home, and now Jules needs to parse whether or not Richard knew about the hit ahead of time. “You don’t need to ally with us, but I think it’s your best option, right now,” Richard says.

But judging from the look on Jules’s face, he’s as likely to accept the offer as he is to decline it, and Richard waits quietly for his decision.

* * *

Jules disdains anyone who deals drugs—Cas knows this from years of working as his right hand man. Hell, it’s obvious enough from the fact that there are still no drugs in Morada. So it’s unlikely that he’ll agree to help Alpha Worthington, whether or not it’s the “best” option for the club.

Who’s to say it’s the best option for the club, anyway?

Besides, all the Reapers really need is to keep the Campbells from doing business in Morada. If they accept this alliance, the ‘Nines will want to take over distribution in Lodi, which will displace the Campbells. And where will they come? That’s right, they’ll try to come back to Morada.

“You still haven’t given us any proof that the Campbells have started negotiating with Leviathans MC. I’m about as close to you as I am to Dick Roman, so forgive me if I don’t take your word for it,” Jules says.

Alpha reaches inside his jacket. In Cas’s peripheral vision, he sees Luce pull a gun, and even as he curses the man for his impulsiveness, Cas pulls his own gun to back him up. Across from them, Luther’s got a gun out, as does the Lafitte twin.

“Calm down,” Jules says, reaching out for Luce’s arm and pushing it down.

“I apologize,” Alpha says, hand still in his jacket. “I’m only going to remove my phone. I should have said so beforehand.”

Jules just nods, and Cas lowers his gun, as do Luther and Lafitte.

Alpha removes his hand from his jacket, and sure enough, he has a phone. Then he slowly walks over to Jules, pulling something up to show him.

“My daughter-in-law was in Lodi this afternoon, and this is what she saw,” Alpha says, handing the phone to Jules.

A moment later, Jules passes the phone back to its owner. “It doesn’t change my answer.”

“And what _is_ your answer? I don’t believe you’ve given it yet.”

“No,” Jules says, as Cas predicted. “I won’t work with you. We can take care of this problem, if it even becomes a problem, on our own.”

“Very well,” Alpha says, walking back toward his men. “You may regret not choosing to work with us,” he adds without turning back toward the Reapers.

“Yeah no offense, but I think we’ll manage just fine without a couple o’ junkies in monkey suits,” Luce says.

Cas sees Luther’s arm twitch just before he lifts his gun, and god-fucking- _dammit_ , why couldn’t Luce keep his fucking mouth shut? Cas shouts loudly, hoping to distract everyone, and shoves Luce to the side, but he still hears the gun going off, and then he and Luce are on the ground, because Luce is a goddamn _idiot_ —

There are gunshots going off from both sides now, and Cas and Luce scramble back behind a bike—Luce’s bike—for cover. Bobby and Alf are back by the van, and Jules is ducking behind his own bike. Cas goes to lift his own gun, but his right arm doesn’t seem to want to work right.

“Shit, Cas,” Luce says, pressing his hand to Cas’s right shoulder, and there’s kind of a squelching sound, which—oh, _oh_ , that’s blood.

Beyond Luce’s bike, Cas can see the ‘Nines taking cover behind the two cars that they drove here. But then the cars are starting, and Cas figures someone must’ve been hit on their side too if they’re so eager to get the hell outta here.

“Cas has been hit,” Luce says calmly, and yeah, _now_ he’s keeping his cool. Fucker.

“Goddamn it,” Bobby growls.

Luce hauls Cas to his feet and passes him off to Bobby, who manhandles him over to the van.

“My bike—” Cas tries to say.

“Alf’s got it,” Bobby says, fishing Cas’s keys out of his pocket and tossing them at the prospect. “C’mon, get in the car,” he urges, shoving Cas into the passenger seat and buckling him in before rushing around to the other side.

The van starts, and Cas presses his left hand to the wound. It doesn’t seem to be bleeding a _lot_ , but it still hurts like a mother, and Cas bites down the complaints that try to work their way out of his throat as Bobby drives up onto the highway, the bikes following close behind.

“Aw, hell,” Bobby curses.

“What?” Cas asks, twisting around in his seat, but Bobby just presses a hand to his chest and shoves him against the seat back.

“We’ve got a squad car on our tail. Probably that son of a bitch, Deputy Henriksen,” Bobby answers. “Don’t worry—Jules’ll take care of it. You just sit there and try not to bleed out.”

“Peachy,” Cas says, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth against the pain. Christ, the next couple o’ hours are gonna suck.


	4. Gimme Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the run-in with the 'Nines, the Reapers run interference with the cops, long enough to get Cas to safety, and then proceed to arrange retaliation on Cas's behalf. The 'Nines manage to track them to Dean's house, where they wait for Alpha's orders. Abaddon sends Meg to the Reapers to alert them of the Campbell-Leviathan alliance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna be pretty busy for the next two months (explanation under the WIPs section of [this page](http://imnotleavinherewithoutyou.tumblr.com/elizaye) if you'd like to know why), so I guess I'm announcing kind of a mini-hiatus, 'til early May. I'm still going to be updating this fic bc I like maintaining patterns, so you can expect the next chapters to go up on the 11th of April and of May, but I wouldn't be too hopeful for other fics in this period of time. Sorry 'bout that!
> 
> (I am in no way giving up on these WIPs, btw. You can totally expect them to be finished, but you'll just have to be patient with me. Thanks ahead of time! You're all awesome.)

Victor had been parked down a side street when he spotted three bikers going by, followed by a van, and then two sedans. It had seemed like cause enough to follow. Besides, Victor was spurred on by the fact that there was an ATF agent in town. Agent Crowley seemed competent, and Victor wanted to do whatever he could to get information for him.

Now, his car is parked along the road a little past the turnoff, and he’s crouched behind some thick brush, trying to get a good look at what’s going on.

He doesn’t think he recognizes the men who got out of the sedans, but they don’t seem like they’re from the Leviathans MC in the north, nor do they look like members of Amazons MC in the south, since they’re obviously not women. They’re not Campbells either, so who are they? Admittedly, Victor isn’t familiar with many members of the Demons, but he’s reliably certain that Azazel calls the shots. And he’s definitely white. The man in charge there is an older black man.

The members of the Reapers are easy for him to identify, of course. Jules is up front, facing the other leader directly, flanked on either side by Cas and Luce. Bobby came out of the van, as did a prospect—the one whose name Victor still doesn’t know.

Victor is just considering moving to a place where he might be able to actually hear when guns are drawn, and he curses to himself, trying to decide whether it’d be a better idea to run back to the car and drive down there or just go running in, gun raised. But before he can come to a decision, the weapons are lowered, and the stranger moves closer to Jules, holding out what is probably a phone.

What’s going on?

In what feels like the blink of an eye, the guns are back up, and people are firing. Two men go down among the Reapers—Luce and Cas, from the looks of it, and Victor doesn’t linger long, rushing back toward his car to get inside. He’s only just gotten to his car when two sedans come screeching off the dirt road and disappear on the highway leading west, away from Morada.

Victor hops into his car as the van comes onto the road, going toward Morada, and he spins his car around in a quick U-turn to follow it. Three bikes skid onto the highway in between him and the van, but he swerves into the empty left lane to pass them up, trying to keep his eye on the van.

If someone’s been hit, they’re gonna need medical attention. Knowing them, they’re not gonna want to go to the hospital, so Victor needs to find the man who was shot and bring him in to the hospital—it’s probably their best option, anyway. Without proper medical care, someone could die tonight, and part of Victor’s job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.

* * *

Bobby has to know that he can’t take Cas to the hospital—Julian trusts that he knows Cas won’t be safe at the hospital. He may not have discharged his weapon, but he’ll be subject to questioning there, and if they’re not careful, the police could detain him. Naomi may be confident in Rufus’s loyalty to the club, but Julian is particularly apt at reading people, and he knows that Rufus has been struggling with his morals for some time.

He takes out his phone, still following the squad car that now has its lights on. Luce and Alf are up ahead of the car, trying to slow it down, but they won’t be able to do it, not with just the two of them.

“Jules?” Mike says when he picks up.

“Get everyone on their bikes! We’re coming back toward Morton-Novak, and we’ve got a tail!” Julian barks into his phone over the roar of his engine.

“Loud and clear!” Mike calls out.

Julian slips his phone back into his breast pocket before shifting gears to catch up with the others. He comes up on the left of the squad car, pulling up close to the driver’s door, and sees that Deputy Henriksen is the man behind the wheel—of _course_ he is.

When the deputy sees that Julian isn’t going to move his bike, he drives out onto the shoulder, accelerating to pass Luce and Alf. They’re still too close to Cas and Bobby, but that damned van can only move so fast. Luce and Alf speed up, as does Julian, staying neck and neck with the squad car.

One of them will have to go ahead with Bobby and Cas. Julian hopes that Luce realizes it’ll have to be him—Alf may have been with them for a few months now, but Luce is a veteran. As hotheaded as he can be, Julian trusts him with Cas’s life—with his own life.

They reach the town quickly, streaking through the streets. The deputy has his siren turned on, so most cars pull to the sides to let them all through. Julian would be annoyed with the disruption that they’re causing the town, but Cas has been injured, and he doesn’t know how bad it is. The faster Bobby shakes Henriksen off his tail, the faster he’ll be able to get Cas looked at.

Minutes later, they barrel down the street toward Morton-Novak. Just as the van passes the entrance, a group of Reapers ride out in pairs of twos, with one bringing up the rear. All seven bikers manage to squeeze between the squad car and the van, and as they turn the corner, Julian gets a good look at Henriksen, who looks absolutely incensed.

He’s honking the horn repeatedly, as though it would do any good, but Julian knows this boy, knows that he thinks of himself as a “good cop” and wouldn’t recklessly endanger the lives of other people if he could avoid it. So all they have to do is keep him boxed in, and he won’t do anything to them.

Except arrest them, of course.

* * *

“Shit, Alpha, it doesn’t look good,” Benny mutters as he whips off his belt, slipping it up and around Alpha’s upper arm and tightening it as a makeshift tourniquet to stem the bleeding—applying pressure did shit-all, and the blood _has_ to be stopped. Benny doesn’t want Alpha to lose his arm, of course, but the only thing he wants less is for Alpha to die of blood loss.

“It’s all right,” Alpha says, grounded as always.

Up front, Luther changes lanes, and Alpha sways with the motion of the car. Benny quickly reaches out to steady him, but Alpha gently pushes him away, leaning back against the seat and shutting his eyes.

“You’re driving too goddamn fast. Slow the fuck down, all right? The last thing we need right now is to get stopped for speeding,” Benny snaps.

“I just—we gotta get back to Oakland, fast,” Luther says.

“We’re not gonna get there at all if we’re stopped by the cops, asshole.”

“Well, I—I mean, Alpha, do you need to go to the hospital? Would it be better if we stopped before Oakland?” Luther asks, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror for a moment, and Benny wants to smack him for taking his eyes off the road for even a _second_ when they’re moving at this ridiculous speed.

“I’m fine,” Alpha says.

“So, no hospital?” Luther asks.

“No. I’ll be better off taking care of myself at home,” Alpha says calmly, and Benny can’t help but be impressed by Alpha’s high pain threshold. “Benny is right. Slow down. We’re in no hurry.”

Luther eases up on the gas, but Benny huffs, still annoyed. “You shouldn’t have fired that shot,” he says.

“Screw him,” Luther responds from up front. “You heard what he said—he deserved it!”

“That doesn’t mean you could fucking _shoot_ at him. Thought you were getting better at this, greenhorn,” Benny snipes.

“That’s enough,” Alpha says. “What’s done is done.”

Benny folds his arms across his chest and glares at the back of Luther’s head. He wonders if Boris has had any luck finding that van—Benny is almost a hundred percent certain that Cas Novak was the one who took Luther’s bullet, and if they’re gonna resolve this, they’re gonna need some form of leverage. The Reapers may have shot Alpha, but that doesn’t count as retaliation, since Luther was the one to fire the first shot.

If they stick by Cas Novak, they’ll have a chance at getting through this with minimal bloodshed.

Somehow, Benny doesn’t think that that’ll work.

* * *

The rest of Dean’s work day goes by quickly, and before he knows it, he’s changing into sweats and an old t-shirt and collapsing on the couch. He turns on the TV, but he doesn’t really see what’s on, too lost in thought.

God, why couldn’t Sam just turn down this case and stay on the case he was already working?

Dean knows that Sam can take care of himself. They grew up in the MC, and they learned enough hand-to-hand combat to be able to defend themselves effectively, enough that Dean never had to worry about people bullying Sam.

But man, bad shit happens to people who mess with the Reapers, and Sam _knows_ that. He sounds overconfident, which is _never_ a good thing. Overconfident people screw up and end up dead.

The adults had always tried to keep club business on the down-low whenever the kids were around, but Dean, Cas, and Limey used to sneak around all the time and eavesdropped on plenty of conversations. Enough that Dean knows the Reapers have killed a _lot_ of people and gotten away with it. Sure, a couple of their guys died too, over the years, and a few wound up in jail, but overall, the club always came out on top.

The fact that Sam thinks he’ll be able to beat those odds… scares Dean.

He’s just thinking about going to grab a beer when the doorbell rings. After a moment of hesitation, Dean goes over to the front door and looks through the peephole. Bobby’s face looms up close, like he’s trying to see through the peephole from the other side.

Rolling his eyes, Dean pulls open the door and—freezes.

“We need your help,” Bobby says, and Dean stands back, lets him support Cas into the room. Luce follows, and Dean turns to watch as Bobby takes Cas over to the couch and helps him sit down. Luce closes Dean’s front door.

“What the fuck?” Dean says, staring at the blood that’s all over Cas’s right side.

The words coming out of his mouth seem to jolt the rest of his body into motion, and he crosses over to Cas, who is pressing his left hand against his right shoulder and looking pissed off with the world.

“Here, let me just—” Dean mutters, pulling at Cas’s hand so that he can get a look at the wound. And it’s definitely a bullet wound, just as Dean suspected, which is gonna be a pain to take care of at home. “Shit, why the hell’d you bring him _here?_ ” are the next words out of his mouth, and fuck, the way Cas flinches makes him wish he hadn’t said them.

“It’s a gunshot wound, son,” Bobby says like he’s an idiot, “and you’re a doctor.”

Dean sighs explosively, shaking his head. “This isn’t a hospital.”

“We can’t _go_ to the hospital,” Cas spits out testily, yanking his hand out of Dean’s grip to push it back against the wound. The bleeding doesn’t seem to be too severe, though Cas has definitely lost a lot of blood already.

“Yeah, okay. Fine,” Dean says, thinking quickly. Leaning over, he notes that the back of his couch isn’t covered in blood, which means there’s no blood on Cas’s back—the bullet didn’t pass through, so Dean’s gonna have to dig it out. Shit. “Okay, I’ve got a trauma kit under the sink in the bathroom. Go get it,” he says, looking back at Luce, who’s standing closest to the hallway that leads to the bathroom. When he doesn’t move immediately, Dean barks, “Now!”

Lucifer whips around and rushes out of the room.

“What the hell happened?” Dean asks, but he doesn’t really expect an answer and isn’t surprised when he doesn’t get one.

He pushes Cas’s hand out of the way so that he can— _carefully_ —pull the cut off his shoulders; he knows how important these things are to bikers, knows Cas would never let him cut through it. Cas winces, but he doesn’t complain as Dean gets the cut off him and passes it over his shoulder to Bobby. Under the cut, Cas is wearing a plain, white t-shirt—or rather, it _was_ white, before Cas got shot and bled all over it.

“Trauma kit!” Lucifer announces, placing it down by Dean’s knees.

Dean opens the bag with steady hands and grabs scissors to cut open Cas’s shirt to get a better look at the sluggishly bleeding wound. As he works, he says, “Luce, Bobby, don’t go anywhere. When I’m done with him, we gotta talk.”

“Dean—” Bobby starts.

“That’s _not_ up for discussion!” Dean snaps shortly, carefully pushing the bloodied cloth aside and replacing it with a bandage, pressing down firmly. “I need to know why you guys suddenly think my living room is a better choice than St. David’s, and you’re gonna tell me.”

“All right, fair enough,” Bobby says, backing off. “We’ll stay here and explain everything—you have my word. Just—take care of him.”

The next few minutes go by quickly, Dean working almost on autopilot. When he’s fairly certain Cas is safe from dying or fainting due to blood loss, he goes in and pulls out the bullet, giving Cas a belt to bite down on to keep him from hurting himself. He’s a trooper about it, doesn’t even make a sound beyond an occasional hiss—Dean should have expected as much from Cas, who’d always been so calm about injuries even as a kid.

When his shoulder has been wrapped up, Dean wipes his torso down with a wet towel before helping him into the guest room. Dean’s vaguely aware of Bobby in the living room, telling Luce to clean up the blood that got on the couch where Cas was sitting.

Making up his mind, Dean goes over to the bedroom door and shuts it, locking it as an afterthought. He turns back to Cas, who’s lying down on the bed, and asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Cas says hoarsely, pausing to clear his throat. “I’m fine.”

“Okay. Good.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says. “We shouldn’t have—I didn’t think Bobby would take me here, of all places.”

Dean shakes his head. “Forget it. I uh, I figure Victor’s looking to catch you guys off guard. The best place for him to do it would be at St. David’s, especially if you’re the one stuck there.”

Cas nods, a flash of surprise in his eyes, there and gone in a split second. He licks his lips but says nothing.

“I’ve got some pills that’ll help you sleep through the pain, if you want them,” Dean offers.

“I’m all right,” Cas answers. “Thanks for cleaning me up.”

The words remind Dean of a time when Cas fell down and scraped his knees. Dean had been the one to roll antiseptic onto the cuts with a cotton swab because they hadn’t wanted to get in trouble with their parents—being grounded always meant they wouldn’t be allowed to see each other.

“I won’t tell my mom if you won’t tell yours,” Dean says, the words slipping out of his mouth before he can think better of it.

And shit, Cas doesn’t speak for such a long time that Dean almost takes it back, because of _course_ Cas doesn’t remember. Cas doesn’t care about him anymore—that ship sailed something like sixteen years ago, and it was Dean’s own damn fault.

Finally, Cas says with a tired sigh, “Seems I’m always the one who gets into scrapes, and you’re always the one cleaning up after me.”

Dean wants so badly to cup Cas’s cheek in this moment, to lean in and kiss away the sad twist to his lips, wants it so bad that his hand twitches at his side. But he can’t, he _can’t_. They’re not like that, never _were_ like that. Maybe they could have been. Maybe if Dean hadn’t left… but Dean _did_ leave, and they’re… well, they’re nothing.

“On second thought, those pills might be nice. This—really hurts,” Cas says.

Dean manages a shaky smile when Cas looks in his direction. “I thought so,” he says, and leaves the room to get the painkillers from his medicine cabinet. Then he goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water before heading back to the guest room.

“He’s gonna be all right, right?” Bobby asks as Dean passes by the living room.

“Yeah, he’ll be fine. Just needs to spend a day or two resting and drinking lots of water to get his blood levels back toward normal. I don’t think there’ll be any permanent damage,” Dean says. “He still would’ve been better off in a hospital, though.”

Bobby just shakes his head, so Dean goes on into the bedroom to give Cas the pills.

The medication works quickly, and barely a minute after swallowing the pills, Cas drops off. The crease in Cas’s brow smooths out, and Dean reaches over to push a hand through his hair, unable to resist now that he’s not awake anymore.

His hair is soft, slightly damp with sweat. His face has gone slack, relaxed, and his mouth has fallen open just a little.

Fuck, Dean wants to kiss him.

Shit no, that’s—that’s a horrible idea.

Pulling his hand back quickly, Dean moves away from the bed, turns off the lights, and shuts the door before going back out to the living room, where Bobby and Luce had better still be. But when he comes out of the hallway, Bobby’s missing.

“Luce, where’s—”

“Moving the van. He’ll be right back,” Lucifer answers from where he’s kneeling by the couch, scrubbing carefully at a blood stain with a towel. Dean doubts that bleach will get it all out. He’ll probably have to buy a cover for the couch or something.

“Okay,” Dean says, going toward the front door.

“I don’t think you should go out there,” Luce says, but Dean really doesn’t give a fuck.

He walks out of his house and sees a van backing out of his driveway. Bobby’s behind the wheel, and he waves at Dean in a gesture that clearly means “get back inside.” Sighing, Dean takes a few steps back into the house and shuts the door.

“I uh, helped myself to one o’ your beers,” Lucifer says as Dean comes in and sits down on the coffee table. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Be my guest,” Dean says, shaking his head.

Despite what he said earlier, he knows that he shouldn’t ask what happened. The last thing he should be doing right now is getting involved with the club. Sam’s about to go up against them, and associating with the Reapers is gonna put Dean against him. God, how is this even his life?

* * *

It seems an impossible task, searching for a single van even in a city as small as Morada. There are tons of streets it could be on, and they could have moved it by now—it’s already been at least fifteen minutes since the shootout, and Boris is starting to think that he won’t be able to find it.

But a stroke of luck has him turning down a street and catching sight of a van that looks like it might be the one. When he gets closer, he’s certain of it—a bike is parked close by, so it must be the Reapers.

At first glance, Boris can’t tell what’s special about this house. It seems perfectly normal, maybe a little unkempt with its untrimmed hedges and long grass, but none of the houses down this street have immaculate lots anyway, so it doesn’t stand out.

He parks across the street and tries to get the house number down, but it’s blocked by the van from this angle. Inconvenient.

Just as he’s pondering whether or not he should move the car, someone comes out of the house, and it’s—yeah, it’s Bobby Singer. This is definitely where Cas Novak is. Bobby gets into the van and starts backing out of the driveway, probably to move the van away from here, and Boris thanks his lucky stars that he got here right when he did. One minute later, and he’d have missed this.

A man steps out of the house then, someone Boris has never seen before, and he assumes that it’s the owner of the house. Quickly, he lifts his phone and turns on the camera function, cursing to himself as it loads up. The man seems to be watching the van intently, but he could turn away any minute.

“Yes!” Boris hisses as the camera turns on, and he manages to snap a pretty clear picture of the guy just a moment before he turns away to go back into the house.

He doesn’t know who this man is, but he’s gotta be important to the club, if Bobby Singer trusted him enough to leave Cas Novak in his care.

Leaning back in his seat, Boris thumbs over to contacts and sends the picture to Alpha’s phone—if anyone will recognize the guy, it’ll probably be Alpha. Along with the picture he sends a short text: _Found cas novak_.

Less than a minute later, his phone rings, and he picks up. “Alpha?”

“No, it’s Benny. Alpha says you oughta stay right where you are and keep an eye on the place. You won’t be going in without backup, but we don’t want them moving Cas without us knowing.”

Boris nods. “Roger that. And the guy? I think he’s probably the owner of the house.”

“Alpha says he looks a lot like Mary Campbell. I’m sending the picture to Eli so he can do some digging. In the meantime, just—”

“Stay where I am. I got it,” Boris says.

“Yep. Good job, brother,” Benny says.

Boris just scoffs and hangs up. Babysitting duty. _Fantastic_.

* * *

This job fucking blows.

Seriously, Max would way rather be back in Stockton selling than up here, tailing Christian fucking Campbell all over Lodi. But Azazel wants Lodi, and Lilith won’t be cool with it until Azazel can prove that the market up here will be worth the effort of taking it.

Right now, Max is in a smelly back alley, watching Christian make a transaction with a short guy in an oversized hoodie. They seem to know each other pretty well—the guy must be a regular.

But really, checking the Campbells’ sales isn’t even a good gauge for the number of buyers in Lodi, and Lilith should know that. They’re just a family with a couple members. The Demons have a much bigger operation, with more sellers and a lot bigger supply. _And_ more variety, since their shit doesn’t all have to be cooked in a garage or a trailer somewhere.

Then Christian is on the move again, and Max takes care not to follow too closely as he goes down the alley. The junkie doesn’t even notice him as he passes, which… well, Max has been there.

He watches as Christian gets into his car, and then he walks casually past the car toward the spot where he parked his own. It takes a while for Christian to actually start his car, and then Max watches in his rearview mirror as Christian’s car pulls out of its space and goes onto the street.

Max starts his car just before Christian passes, but he counts to three before pulling away from the curb, letting a sedan drive past him just to ensure that Christian doesn’t notice anyone tailing him. Ugh, it’s all so _boring_.

* * *

It’s nerve-wracking, having the guys all leave just like that, and Naomi doesn’t know what to do. If she had a clue what the fuck was going on, maybe she’d be able to help somehow, but the boys were in too much of a hurry to get on their bikes to stop and explain what was happening.

Hell, from the sound of it, they barely knew what was going on themselves. Only Mike got to hear what Jules said on the phone, after all.

When she hears the sound of a single bike pulling onto the lot, she rushes out of the clubhouse, only to find that the rider swinging off her bike is Meg.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Naomi asks suspiciously. If that bitch Abaddon had anything to do with what went wrong tonight…

“I tried to call my daddy, but I couldn’t get through. Checked the house too, but he wasn’t there,” Meg says, shrugging. “So I figured I’d come here. Why aren’t there any bikes here? Where are the guys?”

“Out,” Naomi says shortly. “Didn’t you just see Luce last night?”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a message from the Amazons to take to the Reapers. I was supposed to tell my dad, to let him break the news to the rest of the club.”

“Tell me, then,” Naomi says, narrowing her eyes.

“I don’t—”

“Meg.”

The girl licks her lips once, probably debating the merits of doing as she’s told, before saying, “Okay, okay. We heard some news that the Campbell family and Leviathans MC are working together, and they’ve got their sights set on Morada. Abaddon just wanted to give you guys a friendly warning.”

Why would that vile woman even _care?_ She’s never cared about the Reapers’ wellbeing in the past, that’s for fucking sure.

Then again, Abaddon and Dick have had some shitty history, and she’s probably been salivating for a chance to take him and his club on. It wouldn’t surprise Naomi at all if they found out that Abaddon wanted to pull the Reapers onto her side in this. While Naomi doesn’t like the idea of being used by another club, the potential danger from an alliance between the Campbells and Leviathans is decidedly worse. The boys will definitely have to take a vote on this.

“Go back to Abaddon and tell her that we’ve received her message. I’ll bring it up with Jules when he gets back,” Naomi says.

“Yes, ma’am,” Meg says, giving a mock salute before turning back to her bike.

Naomi doesn’t bother to wait for her to leave before heading back toward the clubhouse. There’s nothing more for her to do than wait for—

Her phone rings, and Rufus’s name pops up on the caller ID.

Oh, no.

“Rufus?” Naomi says as she picks up.

“You’re gonna wanna come down to the station right about now.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“Well, the guys just got brought in. Might need you to bail ‘em out.”

* * *

Limey’s working a late shift at the yard.

He’s been taking them more often than not, ever since he got out of jail, because supporting his family through legitimate means is fucking _hard_. Back with the club, his life was on the line a whole lot more, but his family was able to afford to live better, too. He’d had a stable source of income. A _good_ income.

Now, he and Rachel struggle to pay the bills, and he still has to pretend that everything’s fine. That he didn’t swap out a well-paying job for one that pays shit. That he hasn’t stopped doing what he does best.

His phone rings, and he sighs.

“It’s all right—you can get that,” his partner says, but Limey shakes his head.

“Nah, let’s get this log up there first. I’ll call ‘em back,” he answers.

They shove the log up onto the bed of the truck, and Limey moves a few steps away, removing his right glove to fiddle with his phone and check his missed call. It’s from Bobby.

Bobby picks up almost immediately when he calls back. “Limey, we’ve got a bit of a situation here, and I thought it’d be a good time to let you know. You in a place where you can listen?”

“Yeah, go on,” Limey says.

“Cas has… he’s been shot.”

A ringing starts up in Limey’s ears at those words, and he definitely misses whatever Bobby says next, because shit-fuck, no matter how many times Cas has taken bullets and come out on the other side just fine, Limey will never be able to shake his first gut reaction, his instinctual fear that this will finally be the last time, the time that ends him.

“—he’s alive,” Bobby’s saying when Limey can hear again, and that’s a relief.

“Where is he? Are you with him right now?” Limey demands, starting to walk toward the lot where his truck is parked.

“Balthazar!” someone shouts from behind him, but he barely even hears it.

“Yeah, I’m with him,” Bobby says gruffly.

“Where _are_ you?” Limey repeats, because that’s the only thing that matters right now.

“ _Balthazar!_ ”

“Dean’s house. That is—the old Winchester place.”

Limey nods to himself as he hangs up the phone, only to hear that infernal name get shouted at him a third time. He half-turns and sees his supervisor looking at him with a mixture of anger and concern.

“Sorry!” he calls back. “Family emergency! I’ve really gotta go!”

With that, he turns away and breaks into a run, because shit, Cas is injured and in danger and at _Dean fucking Winchester’s house_. This situation couldn’t possibly get any shittier, and Limey’s just grateful that Bobby saw fit to call him, because Dean Winchester is the last person to be trusted when it comes to anything involving Cas.

Limey reaches the old Winchester house in record time and parks right on the driveway, barely pausing to make sure that the doors are locked before going up to the front door and banging on it. He’s relieved when Bobby is the one to open it.

“Come on in,” Bobby says, needlessly, because Limey’s already pushing his way inside.

He sees Dean and Luce in the living room but no sign of Cas. He’ll be in one of the bedrooms, then. Most likely Sam and Dean’s old room—Limey was here enough as a child that he remembers the layout of the house. The thought would be bittersweet under normal circumstances, but Limey’s too worried about Cas’s wellbeing at present to be nostalgic.

“Now wait a minute, Limey,” Bobby tries, but Limey can’t be stopped, needs to see with his own eyes that Cas is alive and breathing before he can relax and ask for the how and why.

Flicking on the lights in the room, Limey finds Cas lying on the bed, and he spends a moment frozen in fear before noticing the steady rise and fall of Cas’s chest. He’s breathing.

He’s alive.

The rushing in Limey’s ears goes down considerably, and he can hear himself think again.

“How’d he get shot?” he asks, voice soft. He knows that Bobby followed him down the hallway.

“Meet went bad,” Bobby answers. “How else?”

Limey just sighs. “All right. I’m gonna have to talk to Dean alone for a bit. You understand, right?”

“Sure. Luce and I’ll be in the living room,” Bobby answers, walking away. “You want me to send him over?”

But Dean’s already coming down the hall, so Bobby just glances at Limey one more time before walking back toward the living room. Dean looks slightly annoyed, but he goes into the master bedroom, the one that used to be John and Mary’s, and Limey follows him inside.

“I didn’t ask for them to come here,” Dean says as soon as the door’s closed. “This wasn’t—”

“I know,” Limey says wearily. He knows what it’s like, knows it too well. He’s been the one to make the judgment call before—hospital or friendly doctor—and more often than not, they had to avoid St. David’s in order to dodge the fucking cops, which was probably the case here, seeing as Cas was shot.

“Okay. As long as you know that,” Dean says, looking a bit relieved.

“That wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about,” Limey says.

“Well, you already warned me off this morning, so—”

“If you remember, I was interrupted this morning. And in any case, it won’t hurt to give you a reminder,” Limey says. “I know I’ve got you to thank for the fact that Cas is all right and doesn’t have a bullet lodged in him right now, but that doesn’t change a thing. I don’t want you messing with Cas, and if you do, I _will_ hurt you.”

“Look, I didn’t _plan_ for this to happen. Cas and I haven’t been friends in a long time, anyway. What makes you think—”

But Limey can’t stop himself from scoffing at that. “Yeah. _Friends_. Right. _That’s_ what you were.”

“What else were we, if not friends?” Dean says defensively.

“Oh, you can’t possibly be _that_ ignorant,” Limey says with a short, humorless laugh. “Why do you think Cas has never taken an old lady?”

Dean just glares at him, but Limey thinks he knows. Fuck, he _must_ know. He’d be a fucking idiot not to.

Stepping closer, Limey says, “Cas is in love with you—has _always been_ in love with you, and if you give him any sort of hope without following through, I will make sure no one _ever_ finds your body.”

Dean looks stunned, speechless, and holy hell, is it possible that he _didn’t_ know?

How could he not have known?

“Do you understand me?” Limey asks nevertheless, because whether or not Dean knew before, he knows now, and if he uses this against Cas, Limey will personally ensure that he is in a world of hurt before he dies.

“Yeah,” Dean says hoarsely. “Yeah, we’re clear.”

* * *

It’s impossible to see into Dean’s house because he keeps his curtains drawn, and that’s frustrating. Alastair knows that it isn’t a gesture that specifically targets him, knows that most people keep their curtains drawn against the world outside, but he just wishes he could keep an eye on Dean at all times.

But no, it’s good that Dean takes precautions. The world is full of dangerous people looking to take advantage of him, but none of them can give him what he needs.

Even with that knowledge, Alastair can’t help but worry. He was here when the van and bike showed up, watched as Dean let the three men into the house, one of them bleeding. Alastair had only seen him from behind, but he’s almost certain it was Cas Novak.

Why is he special to Dean?

 _Dean_ is special.

Cas, Cas is nothing. Cas is a toy.

When Dean has realized the truth, Alastair might let him take Cas along—after all, he knows what Dean needs, what Dean likes, understands Dean better than anybody. Cas could be Dean’s toy.

No, he mustn’t get too ahead of himself. Dean is still frightened, and Alastair needs to reassure him that all is well, that he isn’t angry with Dean for running away like he did. Alastair knows what he did wrong last time, and he can fix it.

Dean will see.

But before any of that can happen, all threats have to be eliminated.

After spending some time digging for information this afternoon, Alastair managed to find some records on the Reapers, enough to match a few names to faces. He doesn’t recognize the man who came in on the bike, but he does know that the one who helped Cas to the door was Bobby Singer, because he reemerged later to move the van, and Alastair got a good look at his face.

Sometime after that, a man had driven up in a pickup. Alastair hadn’t recognized his face, but he hadn’t been wearing a cut either, so he probably wasn’t even a member of the club. Judging by his hurry, though, Alastair guessed that he was there for Cas rather than Dean.

Whatever the last man’s affiliations, his arrival means that there are now three Reapers in the house with Dean, one of whom is injured, as well as a fourth unknown man. Alastair is torn between going in to remove the threat and waiting it out to see what happens. After all, when Dean came out of the house earlier, he didn’t seem distressed at all.

No immediate threat, then.

Also of note is the car that parked itself directly across the street from Dean’s house mere minutes before Bobby came out to move the van. Alastair has had plenty of experience operating covertly, knows to park two houses over, close enough to see people going in and out but far enough away that they wouldn’t notice him.

It’s clear that the driver across the street from Dean’s house doesn’t have that experience—no one has gotten in or out of that car all evening, and it’s quite obvious to Alastair that the driver is watching the house. Dean has no known enemies, so the driver must be here for Cas Novak.

And that, that is not okay. How dare Cas compromise Dean’s safety like this?

Alastair needs more information. And he needs it soon. This biker club is clearly a threat and needs to be destroyed, for Dean’s sake.

* * *

Working in small towns is exhausting, and this, _this_ , is exactly the reason why. Small-town law enforcement lacks vision, and having to work with them is _demeaning_. He has to do so much otherwise unnecessary handholding. Sighing, Crowley lifts a hand to cut off the earnest deputy’s tirade.

“Trust me,” he says. “You need to release the Reapers. Holding them on something as silly as obstruction of justice is exactly that: _silly_. If we want a solid case to put them away, _really_ put them away, we need something substantial.”

“But they definitely fired—”

“You just said yourself that you have no proof that they shot at anyone. They were not in a residential place, and their guns were registered _and_ not long-range. Getting them on an unlawful weapons discharge would be damn near impossible. And the last thing I want is to round them up for trial, only to see them get away scot free,” Crowley says. “Do you understand me?”

Henriksen sighs explosively and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I gotcha.”

“What we need to do right now is wait,” Crowley goes on, because he can’t tell the deputy about the plans he has cooking with Samuel, but he _can_ try to extend his patience at least a little. “We’re going to wait until the Reapers _really_ step in it before making our move. I’ve been monitoring MC and gang activity over the past weeks, and I think something big is coming our way.”

“All right,” Henriksen says. “I’ll let them out, then.”

“Just a moment—wait ‘til I’ve left the station before releasing them. I don’t want them to see me. As you probably suspect, I’m certain your friendly police chief has already told them all about my presence here in Morada. I’d prefer it if they didn’t figure out what I looked like—at least, not yet.”

Henriksen nods. “I’ll give you a few minutes, then.”

“Good,” Crowley says, straightening up a few files on the desk before getting to his feet. “I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Henriksen echoes.

Crowley walks back out into the station proper, unsurprised by the smaller number of people present. He hadn’t even noticed when it got dark, too busy playing out scenarios in his mind, trying to posit every possible choice for each player.

As he reaches the door to the station, a woman approaches from outside, and Crowley pushes open the door, stepping out quickly to hold it open for her. They’ve never met before, of course, but Crowley recognizes her from a few photographs—this is Naomi Novak Morton, the club president’s old lady. She doesn’t spare him a second glance, storming straight into the station, and Crowley lets the door fall closed before going toward his car.

Crisis averted… for now.

According to Victor’s description of the men present at the meeting, Crowley can guess that the ‘Nines were the ones to visit, today. Word of the Campbell-Leviathan alliance got out faster than he’d expected it to, but that’s all well and good for him; the sooner things are set in motion, the sooner he’ll be able to close this case.

All he needs to do is pay close attention and wait for the Reapers to misstep.

* * *

Jules was remarkably calm while they were all in the cell, but Gabe had had his reservations. Obstruction of justice isn’t even close to the bad sorts of things they’ve done before, but Jimmy’s still in the hospital, and Jules doesn’t trust any other lawyers to handle their legal affairs.

Turns out Gabe had nothing to worry about, though, because they’re all free now, heading back to the clubhouse. Naomi came to bail them out, but Deputy Henriksen just let them walk, which seemed _very_ unlike him. Gabe knew not to ask questions, because this sort of shit wasn’t talked about in places where the law could overhear.

But now they’re turning onto the lot, and he’s so curious about what made Henriksen change his mind.

It’s quiet as the group heads into the clubhouse, with the prospects bringing up the rear and shutting the door behind them. Naomi, of course, pops the first question, the one that’s been on all their minds—they couldn’t exactly talk freely while they were in the cell, not with Henriksen out to get them.

“Where is Cas? And why are Bobby and Luce missing?” she asks.

“Just stay calm,” Jules says.

“Y’know, just before I got the call from the station, Meg was here,” Naomi goes on, and this is news to them, because Gabe’s pretty sure Meg doesn’t normally come up to Morada so many times in the same week. “She told me something interesting about the Campbells working out a deal with Leviathans MC to squeeze us out, and lo and behold, my son is missing.”

Campbells and Leviathans working _together?_ It sounds freakin’ unlikely, to Gabe. Their values are just too different for them to work together. It’s amazing they haven’t ripped into each other already, over the years.

“It’s probably true, then,” Jules says, and Gabe’s eyes flick over to him, startled.

“How—did you know about this?” Naomi asks.

“That was what the ‘Nines called us away to discuss,” Jules says.

“It’s unlike Samuel to be making a move like this,” Aggie comments; of everyone here, he probably knows Samuel the best.

“In the past, perhaps,” Jules allows. “But Samuel is getting older now, and it shouldn’t be surprising that he wants to do something for his family’s future, even if that something is stupid and reckless.”

“I just wanna know why we were released,” Alf says suddenly, and Gabe’s proud of him for speaking up. He’s been a prospect for a couple years, and hopefully they’ll be able to patch him in soon. “I mean, the deputy was definitely close enough to hear the shooting, him showing up when he did, so why aren’t we still in jail?”

Gabe doesn’t know how it went down, but shit, shooting does not sound good. Especially given that Cas, Luce, and Bobby are all missing right now. The club had to run interference to help them get away, so at least one of them was shot, and it wasn’t Luce, because he’d been on his bike.

“They’re probably waiting for us to make a more reckless move,” Aggie theorizes.

“But then why bother arresting us in the first place? Henriksen could easily have let us go instead of calling in backup and bringing us all in on some bullshit charge,” Mike points out.

“Scare tactic, maybe?” Gabe suggests, but it doesn’t sound quite right.

“Wait,” Naomi says, frowning. “Rufus was here earlier today, said that an ATF agent just rolled into town, a man who called himself Crowley.”

“So Henriksen jumped the gun and arrested us, and this Crowley had him let us go,” Mike summarizes.

“It would explain how sullen he was when he was unlocking the doors for us,” Gabe adds, nodding.

Then Naomi says, “All right, now that we’ve established the obvious fact that the police are working with the ATF, can someone _please_ tell me where my son is?”

“Please be calm,” Jules says, and oh no, Gabe doesn’t like the sound of his tone—“but Cas was shot.”

The room goes absolutely silent, like no one’s breathing anymore, and all eyes go to Naomi, whose expression goes carefully blank for a moment as the information sinks in.

“Why the fuck didn’t you start with that?!” is the first thing that comes out of her mouth. Without giving Jules time to answer, she goes on, “Where is he? Is he even still _alive?_ ”

“Yes, of course he’s alive,” Jules says quickly. “It was a shot through the shoulder, and he’ll be fine. Luce and Bobby went to take care of him.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t mention this immediately.”

“I wanted to prevent this exact reaction,” Jules says wearily, and of course, Naomi just looks livid. “Mike, give Luce a call and find out where they’ve taken Cas,” Jules says next. “And ask whether or not it’s safe for Naomi to visit right now.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Naomi demands of Jules as Mike gets out his phone and turns away from everyone else. “Why aren’t you checking on him yourself? He’s still your son.”

“The ‘Nines opened fire on us and shot our VP—my _son_. Retaliation is in order,” Jules says coolly. Then, catching Gabe’s eye, he says, “Cas is out of commission, so you should go to Jimmy’s house and look after Amelia and Claire. Make sure nothing happens to them.”

And oh, Gabe had already forgotten that that was something Cas was doing as a favor to Jimmy—it’s easy enough to remember that Jimmy’s in the hospital, but Gabe sometimes forgets that Jimmy has a wife and daughter. It’s too easy to think that Jimmy’s got no one because Cas has got no one, and they look identical.

As he heads toward the door, Gabe absentmindedly sees Naomi giving Jules a hug, expression considerably softer than it was just moments earlier.

Gabe passes by Bacon and ruffles his hair. “You wanna come with?”

“God, no. I’ve had enough of babysitting with you,” Bacon answers, ducking away.

“Bitch,” Gabe says good-naturedly before exiting the clubhouse.

* * *

“What did the Reapers say?”

“I only got the message to Naomi, and she turned me away after that,” Meg reports.

It’s disappointing, but Abaddon supposes she could have expected as much. “Where was your father?” Abaddon asks.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t find him anywhere, and Naomi didn’t really give me a straight answer. I figure he was with the rest of the club somewhere, because none of the bikes were at the shop,” Meg answers. After a pause, she says, “I’m sorry—I was going to wait until I could find my dad, but—”

“No, telling Naomi might have been a good thing. It’ll be good for Jules to hear it directly from his wife,” Abaddon muses.

“What if Naomi doesn’t tell Jules?” Bela asks, frowning. “That woman has so many secrets—I don’t know how she does it, but I don’t envy her.”

“She’ll tell him,” Abaddon says. Of this much she can be sure. “Naomi cares too much about the wellbeing of the club to leave something as big as a potential Campbell-Leviathan alliance unmentioned. Even if she doesn’t bring it up in front of the club members, she’ll definitely talk to Jules about it.”

“Okay. So we’ve done our bit, and now we just have to wait,” Bela concludes.

Abaddon nods, leaning back in her seat. Now, they just have to be patient and see what the big daddy reaper is gonna do.

* * *

“Don’t worry, Kate,” Lenore says into the phone, and Andrea rolls her eyes, leaning back into the couch and turning up the TV. “They could be on the way home right now.”

“God, tell her to just suck it up. This is normal,” Andrea says. She gets a flick to the back of her head the next time Lenore walks past the back of the couch.

“Just calm down. Luther’s probably not answering because he’s driving, all right? Do you—yes, fine, we can give Benny a call,” Lenore says.

“ _I’m_ not calling him,” Andrea puts in.

“Quit worrying, all right?” Lenore goes on.

“Not fucking likely,” Andrea scoffs.

“Will you just _shut up?_ ” Lenore hisses behind her, and Andrea laughs. “Oh no, not you,” Lenore adds quickly, though she says a moment later, “Okay, you probably should shut up, too. Look, just—oh, I think I just saw some headlights on the drive. I’ll call you back.”

Andrea sits up straight, but she can’t see the window from where she’s seated. “Are they really back?”

“I think so,” Lenore answers, putting her phone back in her pocket.

“That was fast, for a trip to Morada,” Andrea murmurs, and when she meets Lenore’s eyes, it’s clear that they’re thinking the same thing. “God, I hope nothing went wrong,” she says as she gets to her feet. Lenore just nods, and they hurry down toward the ground floor.

They reach the huge front doors just as Benny pushes them open, and Andrea feels a weight lift when she sees that her husband is fine.

“Alpha, what happened?” Lenore asks.

When Andrea looks, she sees that he’s leaning on Luther, one of his arms covered in blood. There’s a belt cinched tight around it.

“I’m all right,” Alpha says steadily, walking past them and toward the stairs.

Andrea wants to support him, but Luther’s already got a hold of his good arm, so she, Lenore, and Benny just go upstairs to Alpha’s quarters. Once there, Andrea fetches the first aid kit while Lenore gets a small towel to wet with warm water, for the blood. Benny lays a sheet over the arm and half of the back of Alpha’s armchair.

He arrives and sits in his seat, placing his arm carefully on the armrest.

“Thank you, my children,” he says as Lenore comes over to clean the wound. Andrea grabs some bandages, prepared to cover it when Lenore is finished.

“I think the blood has mostly clotted—we should remove the tourniquet,” Benny says.

Alpha nods, so Benny moves around Lenore to release the belt, nice and slow. Some blood still seeps out, but it seems controllable. Lenore and Benny back away, and Andrea presses a bandage to the wound, keeping firm pressure on it.

“Luther, you can go home,” Alpha says. “Thank you.”

Luther just nods before turning away, and Andrea thinks it’s definitely a good thing—as annoying as Kate’s worry was, Andrea remembers the first few times that Benny accompanied Alpha out of town; she’d been so worried that he might get himself shot. After all, she hadn’t known anything about the strength of Alpha’s influence so far from home. Kate is a good wife.

“Where’s Boris?” Andrea asks as she starts wrapping some adhesive tape to keep the bandage in place.

“He’s in Morada,” Benny answers. “Eli should be there too, by now. They won’t do anything life-threatening—they’re just there to monitor the situation.”

“What went wrong?” Lenore asks. “Are they in danger, in Morada?”

“Unlikely,” Benny replies. “I doubt anyone would have expected that some of us would stay behind. As for what went wrong…” he shakes his head. “Luther got trigger-happy, that’s what went wrong.”

Andrea finishes wrapping the wound and presses a kiss to the back of Alpha’s hand.

“I’m all right, dear,” Alpha says gently. “I don’t blame Luther for what happened. Now, I’d like to rest.”

“Of course,” Andrea says, getting to her feet. Benny’s arm loops around her, hand landing on her waist, and she’s just relieved that he’s home tonight, instead of in Morada with his twin.

“Good night, Alpha,” Lenore says.

The three of them exit the room, and after bidding Lenore a good night as well, Andrea and Benny head toward their own quarters.

* * *

Susan is on the balcony, looking up at the stars, when Dick finally approaches her. The glass door slides open quietly, and then he’s moving to lean on the railing next to her, bracing his elbows on the cool metal. He doesn’t say anything at first, but Susan already knows what he’s going to say. She’s been waiting all night, ever since Eli left, for her husband to broach the subject.

At last, he says, “You need to choose your friends more carefully.”

“I swear, I never said a word to Lenore,” Susan says without looking at her husband. “Besides, you were there for almost the whole time that we were together—you know this already.”

“There’s no other way that anyone could have found out about our alliance with the Campbells.”

Susan sighs. “Dick, even _I_ didn’t really know what was going on when you met with those two men today. I don’t think I would’ve been able to tell that they were Campbells, either, just by looking at them. To be completely honest, I didn’t _care_ why they were here, or who they were. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Dick concedes, and when Susan glances over at him, she sees that he’s nodding. He’s looking out at the trees, so she can really only see half of his face, but it’s obvious that he’s frowning, brow furrowed and lips thinned.

“Lenore did arrive here slightly earlier than I’d expected,” she recalls. “Maybe she caught sight of the Campbells as they were leaving.”

Dick nods again at that but doesn’t comment on it. “It’s all right,” he decides, finally looking over at her. She’s relieved to see a small smile on his face. “Either way, we’ll most likely be business partners with the Bloody ‘Nines in the near future, so it won’t matter as much anymore.”

Dick straightens then, putting an arm around Susan, and she smiles at the light kiss to her temple. It’ll all be fine. And if the ‘Nines are in business with the club here, maybe she’ll even be able to see Lenore more often.

“Susan,” Dick says suddenly, his voice is surprisingly stern, “if I ever catch you letting anything slip, we’ll have some very big problems to solve, and neither of us will like the outcomes. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, of course,” Susan says immediately. “I would never betray you—I promise.”

“Then I believe you,” Dick says easily, patting Susan’s shoulder before moving away.

The door slides closed after he steps off the balcony, and Susan lets out a shaky sigh. She loves her husband, and she doesn’t _think_ that he would ever do anything to hurt her, but at times like these, her faith wobbles.

* * *

Ellen has just finished blending a banana daiquiri and is pouring it into a glass when Ash taps her on the shoulder and holds up the phone. Letting out a sigh of exasperation, Ellen nudges him aside, finishes pouring the drink, and spins around to put it down in front of the customer at the bar.

“Thanks,” he says, cracking a grin and winking at her.

It’s only a little flattering, but Ellen is far past the dating age, and anyway, she’s happily—or not so happily, seeing as Bill has been in fucking jail more often than he hasn’t been—married.

“Sorry, I’m gonna have to take this,” she says to the customer, snatching the phone from Ash and walking toward the back door. “Who is this?” she says into the receiver as she gets away from the bar. It’s much quieter in the back room, thank goodness.

“Hey, Ellen. It’s Jules.”

Oh, that can only mean bad news. “Jules, it’s been a while,” Ellen acknowledges neutrally.

“Yes, that it has,” Jules agrees. After a pause, he says, “I need you to visit Bill on the inside. We have a job for him.”

Ellen bites her lip. She wants more than anything for Bill to get _out_. If nothing goes wrong, he should be paroled in just a few months, and this… the Reapers having a job for him doesn’t bode well. “What is it?”

Her reluctance must be obvious, because Jules says, “We really need this, Ellen.”

“Just tell me what’s going on,” Ellen says.

“Cas has been shot,” Jules answers, and Ellen exhales rapidly, because she may not see Cas around much anymore, but she still watched him grow up. And she still considers Naomi a close friend. “He’s all right, for now, but there must be retaliation,” Jules goes on. “The most accessible gang members to us are currently in prison, so if you just tell Bill that Cas has been shot by one of the ‘Nines—”

“But I—Jules, he only has a few _months_ left,” Ellen protests. “Getting into shit right now will definitely screw with his parole, and I can’t just—”

“Ellen,” Jules interrupts, voice calm, “Ellen, I understand your concern. But the club needs Bill’s help right now. He’d understand the necessity, and he’d do everything he could for his family. You do still consider yourself a part of our family, don’t you? Everything we’ve done for you, to protect you and Jo, we did because you were in this club. Even now, you’re still under our protection.”

Ellen sits down on a stool and shuts her eyes. “Yes, Jules, of course we’re still family,” she says wearily, because he’s right.

The Russians were prominent in this region quite a few years back, and a fair share of gunfights had broken out. Bill was locked up for killing one of them in defense of the club, and they swore to kill Ellen and Jo in revenge. Jules had sent Ellen and Jo away under Bobby’s care to hide out with the Tucson Charter until the storm blew over.

This club is the reason why Ellen is still alive, why she can run the Roadhouse and support Jo through nursing school. Jules rarely ever asks for favors, only when they’re absolutely necessary, but still—only a few more months and Bill could be _home_.

“Then you’ll send the message for us, won’t you?” Jules asks. When Ellen hesitates, he says, “Just tell him what’s happened. Please. If he doesn’t want to carry it out, we’ll decide on another plan of action.”

But Jules knows that Bill would never turn down the club—he _knows_ that. Ellen sighs, bracing an elbow on the counter to her left and resting her forehead against her hand. “I’ll tell him,” she says.

“Thank you, Ellen.”

* * *

Cas didn’t pick up twenty minutes ago, and now, it’s just past eight o’clock. He’d said that he would come around sundown every night and that he’d give her a call if he was going to be late, but the sun went down over an hour ago, and he’s still not back.

Well, maybe his phone’s just dead.

But oh no, she shouldn’t have thought that, because now she’s wondering if _Cas_ is dead. That’s impossible, right? It’s stupid to be thinking that.

Except—Amelia knows exactly how possible it is. Her husband in the hospital is proof enough of how much danger club members face on a daily basis, and it’s entirely probable that Cas was somehow incapacitated. God, she hopes he’s not dead. Maybe she should call Naomi.

But before she can try Naomi, there’s a light knock on the door.

Wary, Amelia crosses the room and checks through the peephole before opening up. “Gabe, hi,” she says, only slightly relieved. If Gabe is here, then there must be some reason why Cas isn’t.

“Hey,” Gabe says, stepping into the house. Amelia closes the door, and Gabe turns to say, “Please don’t tell anyone, but Cas has been shot. I thought it’d be important for you to know that, seeing as he’s basically your brother.”

“Oh my god,” Amelia says, eyes widening. “Is he—”

“He’s all right. He’s not at St. David’s, so don’t go there looking for him. It wasn’t uh, well. It wouldn’t be good for us, legally, if the police found out about him,” Gabe says.

“Okay,” Amelia says, relieved. “Okay.”

“Anyway, I’m just here to stay the night and make sure nothing happens to you or Claire. Oh, and uh, don’t tell Jimmy about it just yet. The club will take care of that,” Gabe says.

“All right,” Amelia says. “I couldn’t tell him now even if I wanted to, anyway—his visiting hours have been restricted, so they’re over already. The hospital kicked us out right after dinner.”

Gabe frowns. “He should have normal visiting hours, though,” he says. “We didn’t request to limit his visiting hours or anything.”

“Hmm. I guess I could ask the hospital for more details when I go in tomorrow,” Amelia says.

“No, it’s fine. You let us take care of that,” Gabe says. “All we need from you is for you to stay safe and be careful. It’s okay to be a bit paranoid—better paranoid and alive than laidback and dead.”

Amelia nods. “All right, well, Claire’s just doing her homework in her room, but I’ll be putting her to bed soon. You can shower now, if you like.”

“Sounds good,” Gabe says, so Amelia leads the way down the hallway to the bathroom. She pushes the door open fully and turns around to the opposite wall to point out the linen closet.

“You can just leave whatever you use on the ground. I’ll—”

“Nah, it’s all right. I’ll probably be staying here ‘til Cas decides he’s well enough to come back,” Gabe says. “If that’s okay with you, of course. We can send someone else over, if you want.”

It’s not an option for Amelia to just take care of herself, of course. But she supposes it’s good to have someone here, if only to make sure that Claire is safe. “Oh, you’re welcome to stay,” Amelia says. “And thank you. For coming, that is.”

Gabe huffs, smiling. “No problem. You’re family.”

Amelia smiles back and goes farther down the hall toward Claire’s room. When she glances back, Gabe is pulling a towel out of the closet and pushing the door closed. It’s great that the club looks after its own, but at times like this, Amelia can’t help but wish that all this protection was unnecessary in the first place—that Jimmy had been born into a different family.

* * *

Back in high school, Eli had hated doing “research reports.” They required going to the library to get source material, reading that source material, and writing some bullshit using what he’d read.

Now, he still hates research, and he still hates libraries, but he figures that if this guy reminds Alpha of Mary Campbell, then he could be one of her sons, based on what he knows about the Reapers. It really isn’t much, but everyone heard about the rape and murder of Mary Winchester. Eli had only been nine years old at the time, a street rat in the gutter with his brother, but he still remembers the headlines of the newspapers that had been scattered around.

If the guy Boris snapped a picture of really turns out to be Mary’s son, then it totally makes sense that he’d be close with the Reapers, because Eli’s almost positive John Winchester died years later, defending a warehouse of crap—guns, probably—owned by the Reapers.

Since it’s after hours, the lights inside the library are all off and the door is locked, but it’s easy enough for Eli to pick the lock and let himself in. Using a flashlight, he wanders around for a few minutes before locating a shelf of yearbooks from the local high school.

All right, the murder of Mary Winchester happened twenty-nine years ago, and her two kids were four years old and six months old, so they would be thirty-three and twenty-nine now. Normally kids start high school when they’re… what, fourteen? Fifteen? So the older kid would _probably_ have started eighteen or nineteen years ago, and the younger one would have started fourteen or fifteen years ago.

Eli grabs the yearbook from seventeen years ago— _Morada High School, 1995_ is printed on the cover—for starters, because the older brother would be a sophomore or junior, and getting older pictures of the guy is a probably a better bet. People can change a lot in almost twenty years, anyway.

Settling down at a table, Eli flicks on a small lamp and gets his phone out, finding the picture that Benny forwarded to him. God, this is gonna take forever. And fuck, if it’s not the older brother, he’ll have more yearbooks to go through.

They’d better find something useful to do with this information, because Eli’s not looking this shit up for his own health, goddammit.

He opens the book and starts thumbing through to find the student portraits, but a familiar face flashes past him, and he quickly flips back a few pages, because that could _not_ have been—

But it is, it _is_. There’s Cas Novak, all young and looking like a fucking _twink_ , despite his “rebel” jacket and ripped up jeans. He’s smiling widely, doesn’t see the camera because he’s looking up at a guy whose arm is draped across his shoulders, and well, _shit_. Looks like it was the older son, after all, Eli thinks, holding his phone up to the picture as a comparison.

Yep, definitely the same guy. He looks a lot older now, of course, but it’s unmistakably him.

It’s a random candid picture, used as a representation of student life, so of _course_ there’s no caption with the guy’s name, but Eli knows that he’s looking in the right year, knows to look for a Winchester.

Eli lingers on the picture for a moment longer, trying to remember why the Winchester name sort of faded into the background—Cas Novak made a name for himself when he was only eighteen, had a reputation that he was deadly with all sorts of weapons and especially brutal with knives. In the picture here, Eli guesses that Cas has gotta be fourteen or fifteen years old—what happened that made the Winchester boy fade to the background while Cas rose to prominence?

Oh. Right, _1995_. That was the year that Charles Novak bit it. A car accident was the official story—his bike had been hit by a giant truck—but plenty of people had had suspicions. Eli doesn’t think a club president has _ever_ died in an actual, honest-to-god, accident.

But whatever happened then, this Winchester is apparently still close enough with the Reapers that they trust him to take care of their VP.

Eli flips over to the student portraits and searches each year for Winchesters. He locates the boy— _Dean_ Winchester—in the sophomores, one year above Cas Novak. Now that he has a name to put with the face, he flips back to the candid shot and takes a picture of it with his phone, typing _Dean Winchester, ‘95_ into the subject line before sending it off to Alpha.

Hopefully, now that the dude’s been identified, Eli will be able to go home and relax a bit. He’s only interacted with Dick Roman a few times before, but it was always while Alpha was present, and Eli was usually just in the background anyway. Speaking with him, one on one, was pretty fucking stressful.

Then his phone buzzes with a message, and he opens it.

 **Alpha:** _Stay in Morada. Rent motel room and relieve Boris in a few hrs. Observe, don’t act._

Well, there go his plans for relaxing, tonight. Sighing, Eli taps out a quick _Yes, sir_ before putting the yearbook back on the shelf, turning off the lamp, and leaving the library.

* * *

Michael follows Naomi’s SUV to the old Winchester house, where Bobby said that Cas is. Luce’s bike is parked at the curb, as expected. What’s unexpected is a familiar pickup truck on the driveway—Limey’s. But Michael guesses he shouldn’t be surprised that Bobby called him first thing. Member or not, Limey cares a hell of a lot about Cas.

As they walk up the driveway and over to the door, Michael wonders where Bobby stowed the van—he is pretty sure that they took it to the meet today.

When they knock on the door, Bobby is the one who opens it, probably to prevent Naomi from coming face to face with Dean right off the bat.

“Where’s my son?” Naomi demands as she enters the house.

Michael tails her in, holding back a sigh. Before anyone can even respond, Naomi heads down the hall that leads to the bedrooms—Michael knows this because he used to end up on babysitting duty sometimes, when he was still a prospect. Being back here…

He shakes off the nostalgia and spares the men in the living room a quick glance—Dean, Limey, and Luce are all there, looking pretty damn tense—before following Naomi.

They find Cas in what used to be Dean and Sam’s room, out cold. The room is filled with boxes now, just enough space in it to move around, and Michael absentmindedly wonders if the other bed is still there, hidden under all the boxes.

Naomi’s entire frame relaxes as the tension dies down a little, and Michael dares to rest a hand on her shoulder. “C’mon, let’s just let him sleep,” he says. “He looks fine.”

“No, just—give me a minute,” Naomi says, going over to the bed and sitting down gingerly on the edge of it. The bed dips under her weight, but Cas doesn’t wake.

Michael backs out of the room and shuts the door to give her some privacy. When he turns around, he sees Limey standing in the hall, a few yards away. He’s not wearing the cut, and Michael wonders when he’ll get used to that.

Then Bobby and Luce are coming down the hall as well, and Dean seems to be following, judging from the number of footsteps. Behind Michael is the master bedroom, so that is their only possible destination. It’s a sizeable room, sure, but it’ll still feel crowded with the five of them in there.

“Dean, would you be a dear and grab us some beers?” Luce says.

Limey and Bobby pass Michael to go into the master bedroom, and Michael sees the look of discontent on Dean’s face.

“You’re kidding me, right?” he says, eyebrows raised.

“The grownups have things to discuss, and you’re not invited,” Luce says, and Michael steps over to grab his arm, pulling him in the direction of the room before he can make a mess.

“This is _my_ house, asshole. If I wanted, I could kick _all_ o’ you out, you got me? Cas included,” Dean snaps.

Luce opens his mouth to retort, but Michael gives him a push, sending a stern look his way for good measure, so he throws his hands up and disappears into the room. Turning back to Dean, Michael says, “It’s true that you shouldn’t hear what we’re about to discuss. You wouldn’t want to, anyway.”

Dean’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t protest, just turns and walks away. Michael turns back around and goes the rest of the way down the hall.

“What’s going on?” Luce asks as soon as the door closes behind Michael. “What’s our plan of action?”

“Jules already mentioned retaliation tonight, at the clubhouse,” Michael reports. “He made a call while the rest of us were nearby, and if neither of you two got a call—” Michael pauses here, looking between Luce and Bobby, but when they both shake their heads, he goes on, “—then he must have called Ellen.”

“Aw, shit,” Bobby mutters.

“Two members of the ‘Nines are in jail, so that must be what Jules is planning,” Michael says.

“We’re gonna have to put that up to a vote,” Bobby says. “Bill tends to use violence in excess.”

“The VP has been shot, Bobby. Do you really think a goddamn _vote_ is necessary?” Michael asks.

“I don’t think so,” Luce says.

“I’m right with you both,” Limey says, and Bobby sighs.

“Wait, Limey. You—are you in or out on this?” Michael asks. But he holds up a hand before Limey can respond and says, “No, don’t—talk to Jules about it. You know we’d all vote to reinstate you, but Jules is the first guy to talk to, not any of us.”

Limey nods, but from the look in his eyes, Michael is almost certain he’ll be coming back for this.

“All right, let’s go back outside,” Michael says. Pointing a finger at Luce, he adds, “And at least be _civil_ , you got that? Dean doesn’t owe us anything.”

Luce just rolls his eyes and exits the room. Limey follows, and Michael goes out after him. The four of them troop back into the living room, but it’s empty. Looking over the counter at the kitchen, Michael sees Dean at the table with a drink. Limey sits down on one end of the couch and Bobby on the other—there’s a spot in the middle that looks wet, probably freshly cleaned. Luce perches on the coffee table.

After a moment of hesitation, Michael goes to join Dean in the kitchen.

“Thank you,” he says, quietly, fully aware that the other guys can hear him. “For taking care of Cas.”

Dean huffs. “Yeah, like I had a choice,” he answers, but he doesn’t meet Michael’s eyes.

Michael deliberates, hovering on the verge of sitting down across from Dean to try to make eye contact, because he really _did_ like the kid when he was younger. He’d had so much potential.

But before he can sit, the door to Dean and Sam’s old room opens, and Michael turns in time to see Naomi coming down the hall and into the living room.

“We’re leaving, and we’re taking Cas with us,” she announces.

Michael’s ready to protest, but Dean beats him to it. “You uh, you really shouldn’t be moving him before he’s healed up,” Dean says, already on his feet. He still cares, is still so transparent about it.

“I don’t want him here,” Naomi says, glaring at Dean.

“I think we oughta listen to the doctor on this one,” Bobby says. “He’s the one who knows what’s best for Cas right now.”

“And the police won’t think to look for Cas here,” Limey adds after a moment, though he looks reluctant about it. “As long as we make sure there aren’t too many bikes parked outside, they won’t notice.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Naomi says stubbornly, and though her words are presumably directed toward Limey, her eyes don’t leave Dean. “We can take him anywhere else. Just not anywhere near _him_.”

“You know what, get out of my house,” Dean says. “Cas is staying, but I want you out. You’re not welcome here. In fact, you _haven’t_ been welcome here. For years.”

Naomi looks startled, surprised that Dean would have the guts to say all that to her face, and Michael moves toward her quickly, gripping her upper arm. “Not now, not here, and not when Cas is still in there,” he says, jerking his head toward the hallway behind Naomi.

Everyone who was in the club at the time knows that something went down between Dean and Naomi really soon after Cas’s dad died, and everyone was so curious but too afraid to ask. Michael would be lying if he said that he didn’t want to know what happened—looking around the room, Limey, Bobby, and Luce all seem to be thinking along the same lines—but god, they really shouldn’t get into it now.

Naomi looks furious, but finally she spins on her heel and storms out of the house.

“One of us should stay behind, just to keep an eye on Cas,” Michael says to the guys in the living room as he heads for the door, “but I need to make sure she doesn’t just drive off.”

He hurries out the front door and is relieved to see that Naomi hasn’t gone anywhere yet. He jogs over to her and taps on the window to get her to open it, and after a pause, it rolls down.

“What?” she snaps over the low hum of the engine heating up.

“Don’t leave yet. Bobby will probably be riding back with you, if you don’t mind.”

“I wanna go see Jimmy,” Naomi says.

“We shouldn’t tell him yet. Visiting hours are probably over by now, anyway,” Michael argues.

After a brief pause, Naomi says, “I guess I can go tomorrow morning.” She looks resigned, but she doesn’t shift gears, so Michael counts that as a win and starts toward his bike.

A moment later, all three Reapers come out of the house, and Michael frowns. “Hey, Luce, get your ass back in there and keep watch,” he says, voice slightly raised to ensure that he’ll be heard. “If he dies because we left him here without a guard, it’ll be on us.”

“I’m not sitting this out,” Luce says indignantly, and Michael starts walking toward him, because they really shouldn’t be discussing this out in public. “I want in on the action.”

“I don’t even know if there _will_ be action,” Michael points out. “Just—get in there and _behave_.”

Luce reluctantly turns and goes back toward the front door. Michael glances in Naomi’s direction and catches her grateful look, so he manages a small smile in return. When Bobby’s inside, Naomi shifts gears and drives back toward the clubhouse. Michael stays close behind her. When he checks his rearview mirror, he sees Limey following in his pickup.

* * *

Limey parks his car in the lot in front of Morton-Novak and counts the bikes present. Six seems like a bit much for this time of night, when most of the club members should be home already, but then he remembers hearing from Bobby that Jules called in three of the Nomads. The other three bikes belong to Jules, Cas, and Bobby.

Well, and Mike, now, since he’s climbing off his bike and heading toward the clubhouse. Limey and Bobby follow him, and Naomi calls through the open window of her car, “Tell Jules I’m just gonna go home, all right?”

This makes Mike stop short, frowning, and Limey wonders when Mike became the designated escort for Jules’s old lady. Mike heads over to the SUV, but Limey figures it’s none of his business. He’s here to talk to Jules, to get in on the retaliation.

First Jimmy, now Cas. Jules has even called in the Nomads. Something’s definitely going down, and if the club needs more bodies, Limey’s not going to sit on the sidelines.

“You sure about this, boy?” Bobby asks just before they reach the door.

“Absolutely,” Limey responds.

“I’ll let you talk to him first,” Bobby says, grabbing the door handle. Behind Limey, he hears Mike’s bike start up again—apparently he’s decided to escort Naomi home, after all. “Jules isn’t gonna be happy after he hears what I’ve got to say to him.”

“Okay,” Limey says with a nod.

They enter the clubhouse then, and it’s quiet, dim. Jules is probably in the chapel, so Limey heads over to the large doors. He knocks once before entering.

“Limey,” Jules says from his seat at the head of the table. “It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, it is,” Limey acknowledges. “Look, I want in on the retaliation,” he goes on, because it’ll be easier to just get this all over with as fast as possible.

Jules considers it for a moment, quiet. Then he says, “I hope you understand, Limey, that there is no halfway, when it comes to this club. If you want to join the retaliation, you have to be reinstated. You can either come back fully, or you can stay retired.”

“Then I’m coming back,” Limey says without hesitation.

“I think you should discuss it with Rachel first,” Jules says.

“She won’t approve—I already know how it’ll go.”

“Nevertheless, talk it through with her before you make your decision final,” Jules insists.

After a pause, Limey says, “Yeah, all right. I need to grab my cut, anyway.”

Jules hesitates, like he wants to say something, but eventually he just raises a hand and waves it, a clear dismissal. Limey nods once and exits the room.

“How’d it go?” Bobby asks from behind the bar. He’s poured himself a tumbler of some drink or other.

“Fine,” Limey responds. “I’m going home to talk to Rachel.”

“That’s a good idea,” Bobby says, finishing his drink and heading toward the chapel. “Good luck.”

Limey almost laughs. “Yeah, you too.”

He takes the pickup home, thinking about what Jules said—about how there’s no halfway. But there’s no doubt in Limey’s mind that he wants to be back. He’s been holding out, convincing himself that he’s making the right choice, but it doesn’t _feel_ right, not anymore. He doesn’t think it _ever_ felt right.

Back at the house, Rachel asks, “Hey, what took you so long? Ephraim called, looking for you. He said something about an emergency?”

“Cas was shot,” Limey responds, going to the bedroom to get his cut.

Rachel follows, sounding concerned as she asks, “Is he all right?”

“He’s fine, for now.”

“Wait,” Rachel says as Limey digs his cut out of the closet and shrugs it on. “Limey, what—are you going _back?_ After everything you said to me—”

“Are the kids asleep?” Limey interrupts, because he doesn’t want them to overhear this. They’re young enough that they probably wouldn’t understand what he and Rachel are arguing about, and he doesn’t want them exposed to any of this, anyway.

“Yeah, I put them to bed already. Limey—”

“Just listen to me. We have two children who need to be looked after. We’ve gotta pay the bills and take care of ourselves, too, and the money I make at the lumberyard is barely enough for us to make our monthly mortgage payment,” Limey says. “Back when I was with the club, that was never an issue.”

“Well, I made it work well enough while you were inside, didn’t I?” Rachel says. “We can make it, Limey.”

“I don’t wanna just ‘make it,’” Limey protests. “We can do better than this—can _live_ better than this.”

Rachel sets her jaw. “I don’t want you to go back to the club, and that’s final.”

Taking a deep breath, Limey answers, “The club is a part of me—has been since I was born. If you really wanted nothing to do with the club, then you never should have agreed to marry me.” Rachel takes half a step back, eyes wide, and Limey says, “It’s the truth. I thought I could walk away, but I can’t.”

“So that’s it, then,” Rachel says quietly.

Limey grabs a duffel bag and pulls open a drawer, shoving a few changes of clothing inside. “I guess so,” he says as he zips up the bag. He straightens then, takes in the tenseness of Rachel’s shoulders, the thin line of her lips. “Darling,” he says, not daring to reach for her, “you know I love you. I will always love you. But I cannot change who I am. Not even for you.”

Rachel just exhales and looks away.

Silence falls heavily between them, and Limey picks up his bag, heading for the door. He hesitates, one hand on the doorknob, and says, “I’ll be out for a few days. If you… well. You know where to find me.”

He doesn’t expect Rachel to tell him to stay, and she doesn’t.

Ten minutes later, Limey bunks down in one of the spare rooms at the clubhouse, sharing with Ghoul because Raph and Sharpie have got the other room. Jules hadn’t looked particularly surprised at his return, though he’d seemed almost disappointed. Bobby had been nowhere to be seen.

It’s a little cramped, and to be honest, Limey doesn’t even know his bedmate all that well, yet still, he feels _at home_ for the first time since he left his prison cell.

He can’t decide whether or not he likes what that says about him.


	5. Slip Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean calls in sick and stays home to look after Cas. Ellen visits her husband in jail. The Campbells begin to suspect that the Leviathans are less invested in their alliance now than they initially were. The Reapers carry out their retaliation against the 'Nines for shooting Cas, but the consequences of their actions are not what they expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shiznit, cuttin' it close this time. Anyhow, I made it! (Pacific time; it still counts, okay?)

Cas wakes disoriented, not sure where he is. There’s a popcorn ceiling above him. The house his parents left for him—Naomi moved out to stay with Jules when they got married—doesn’t have a popcorn ceiling.

There’s a throbbing ache in his shoulder, faint but very much present, and as he grows more alert, his awareness of the pain increases. When he tilts his head to the side, he sees tons of boxes piled to the left of the bed that he’s lying on, which makes no sense, unless…

Right. He’s in the guest room of the Winchester house—the room that Sam and Dean shared when they were growing up. He spent many an afternoon here, as a kid.

Most of the familiar furniture appears to be gone now, replaced with boxes of things that are labeled in black sharpie—on the three nearest boxes are KITCHEN, CLOTHES, and BED SHIT, in familiar handwriting, _Dean’s_ handwriting, and it’s the last label that makes Cas smile because it’s so— _Dean_.

The doorknob turns then, and Cas quickly shuts his eyes, because that’s probably Dean right now, and he doesn’t want Dean to know he’s awake. It’s a cowardly move, sure, but it’s just so much easier to not face Dean than it is to face him. He hates thinking about the past because it’s exhausting, and that’s pretty much all he can think about whenever Dean is around, so the best option for Cas is to just keep his distance.

“Cas?” Dean says quietly, almost like he doesn’t want to wake him up.

So Cas doesn’t move a muscle, just breathes slow and deep and even. But now that he’s only thinking about staying still, the throbbing in his shoulder returns to the forefront of his thoughts, reminding him that he was shot. It really doesn’t hurt that bad—not as bad as he’d thought it would—but it’s still there, an annoying ache.

The bed dips a little on his right, and Cas lets his head roll in that direction. It’s silent for a moment, and then Dean says his name once more, slightly more insistent. Cas keeps his eyes stubbornly shut.

And then fingers lightly run through his hair, slide down to touch his cheek, and shit, Cas can’t fucking _take_ it anymore, so he opens his eyes.

Dean draws his hand back as though burned, shock and fear the first expressions on his face, quickly replaced by something that looks a lot like anger. “You were awake?” he says, tone accusing. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Cas doesn’t know how to answer, doesn’t actually _have_ an answer, so he turns it around and demands of Dean, “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t—”

“What _was_ that?”

“I don’t know, okay?”

There’s a knock on the door then, and it swings open like half a second later. Limey’s in the doorway, only he’s—in his cut. Why the fuck is he back in his cut? God, this is all Cas’s fault, yet he can’t help the elation that bubbles up in his chest at the thought that his brother might have returned, for real.

“What’s going on?” Limey asks.

“Nothing,” Dean says quickly, reflexively. “Everything’s fine.”

It’s surreal for Cas to lie there with Dean at his bedside, watching as Limey enters the room. He can’t help but remember a time when they spent long afternoons here, just the three of them, up to whatever shit they were up to, because there was always _something_.

But that’s over and done with, and the atmosphere in the room right now is cold, unfriendly.

“Limey,” Cas says, “you’re—”

“Yeah,” Limey responds before Cas can finish, looking down at himself. “Guess I am. I spent the last half hour getting the blood out of your cut, by the way. It was a pain in the ass, so you’d better be grateful.”

Cas manages a smile. “I am.” But Dean’s still wavering there, seated on the edge of the bed, and Cas doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, so he says, “Limey, I need to talk to Dean.”

Limey clenches his jaw at that—it’s obvious what he thinks about it. “Cas—”

“Please.”

Reluctantly, Limey exits the room, shutting the door behind him. Cas wouldn’t put it past him to linger by the door, though, so he resolves to keep his voice down so nothing can be overheard.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says suddenly, quietly. “It wasn’t—it was nothing. I thought you were asleep. Never would’ve done it if I knew you were awake.”

“Why would that change anything?” Cas asks. Why the hell would Dean touch his face like that in the first place? It was… there was something undeniably sentimental about the gesture, and Cas doesn’t understand it.

Dean only turns away, and Cas tries to sit up. His head immediately starts to spin, the world tilting wildly around him, and he closes his eyes, swaying. Dean’s quick to catch his upper arms, lowering him back down because he’s apparently too much of a dainty fucking flower to even _sit up_ on his own.

“You lost a lot of blood yesterday,” Dean says. “It’s natural for you to be feeling dizzy and weak for at least the rest of today, and maybe some of tomorrow.”

Cas looks at the concern in Dean’s eyes and thinks that he _can’t_ be faking this. But hell, it doesn’t make any sense. Dean doesn’t _care_ about Cas—disowned him _years_ ago. Dean isn’t fucking _allowed_ to care about Cas, not now. Not ever.

“Cas, buddy, you okay?”

Cas blinks a few times, realizes that Dean is fixing him with a look of mild concern. “Why did you leave?”

Dean looks taken aback, startled, like he hadn’t expected Cas to ask this question. How could Cas _not_ ask? He may as well admit it to himself that it’s haunted him for years.

But Dean only sputters a little, looking cornered, and that’s answer enough. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter,” Cas says, because he should’ve expected that.

Of course Dean wouldn’t wanna say straight out that he was fed up with the club, fed up with the family, fed up with Cas. Things have been civil between them since his return, and it’ll be better for everyone involved if they just keep it that way—that must be Dean’s train of thought, at least. Especially since he’s apparently stuck sheltering Cas, for the time being.

He looks relieved at being let off the hook, which only confirms Cas’s suspicions, so when Dean makes a quick excuse to get out of the room, Cas doesn’t even bother listening, just waves a hand dismissively and waits for Dean to get the fuck out. Of course, as soon as Dean starts heading for the door, Cas can’t help but watch him leave.

He’s gotten too used to the image of Dean’s back, moving away from him, yet he can’t fucking look away.

Then Limey is back in the room, and the first thing he says is, “I won’t be here long. I just thought I’d come by to see if you were awake yet.”

“You could’ve called,” Cas says, but Limey just shakes his head, and yeah, if their positions were reversed, Cas would wanna see for himself, too.

“Anyway, Luce will be staying here to keep watch over you. I would’ve volunteered, but those were Jules’s orders. I don’t know who’s angrier with the arrangement—Luce or Dean.”

Cas chuckles at that. “It’s probably his punishment for mouthing off. The ‘Nines were the first to open fire, but Luce did provoke them, and you know what Jules thinks about that.”

Limey nods in agreement before switching tacks and asking, “Do you wanna leave this house? You don’t have to stay here, with… well.”

“It’s all right; I can stay,” Cas says. “There isn’t a good place for me to hide if the good deputy really decides he wants to find me. I doubt he’d ever expect _Dean_ to take me in, of all people. Hell, even I wouldn’t have expected it.”

“Well, the police didn’t come to the clubhouse, so I don’t think they’re coming down on us this time,” Limey says, and that’s a relief. Obviously they wouldn’t have found anything, but it’s fucking stressful whenever the police come barging into Morton-Novak. “It’s probably safer for you here, anyway,” Limey adds a beat later. “So if there’s nothing you need, I’ll be heading back out to the clubhouse now.”

“Just—one second,” Cas says, because they can’t just gloss over the fact that Limey is back in the club, back in his cut. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’m fine,” Limey says, playing it off because of _course_ he would.

But Cas doesn’t have the patience to play coy, so he goes ahead and asks, “What did you tell Rachel?”

Limey sighs, a sad, soft sound. “Don’t worry yourself about it, Cas. Everything’s fine.”

“What did you tell Rachel?” Cas repeats, because if Limey is actively avoiding the conversation, then whatever happened between him and Rachel couldn’t have been good. God, of _course_ it wasn’t good. Limey made a promise to her, after all.

“What do you think I told her?” Limey finally says, but there’s no heat behind his words. “I just—” he stops, sighs again, and starts over, “Cas, we’ve known each other for years—since longer than I can even remember. The man I was for the past few weeks wasn’t me, and you _know_ that. I just… I just couldn’t be that guy anymore. If I didn’t come back over this, it would’ve been over something else, eventually, and it didn’t make any sense to put off the inevitable.”

“And you… you put it to her just like that,” Cas says, a little astonished.

“Not in so many words, but I think she understood,” Limey replies. “Don’t worry about it, Cas. It’s been done, and I have no regrets. And if you even _try_ to blame yourself—”

“I won’t. Your choices are your own.”

“Good. As long as you know that,” Limey says.

Cas nods, so Limey nods back and starts toward the door. Before he can reach it, Cas says, “For what it’s worth, I’m… really happy to have you back.”

Limey grins back at him. “You and me both, Cas.”

* * *

“This isn’t shady at all,” Sam comments as he ducks into a black sedan parked at the curb on a semi-busy street downtown.

Crowley turns toward him with a small smile, and Sam thinks he gets the point of the sunglasses now—it’s very difficult to tell whether or not Crowley is being sincere. “Important things are going on,” Crowley says. “Someone could always be watching, so I’d rather be discreet with my meetings.”

“Couldn’t they be watching this car right now, then?”

“Sure; of course they could be. But I’ve had this car swept for bugs, so even if they could see us—which they can’t, because of the tinted windows—they can’t hear us.”

“Okay, then,” Sam says. “So what is this about?”

“Well, I need some information that a doctor could get me, and I happen to know that your brother is a doctor. Is this true?”

“Yeah,” Sam says cautiously.

“Good. I’d like you to ask him whether or not he knows a safe place where a man who got shot might go to hide,” Crowley says. “Like a type of warehouse, or a safe house—”

“Wait, did—I mean, has someone been shot?” Sam asks, concerned. He would’ve assumed that a shooting would have been all over the news, but growing up around the Reapers, he has an idea of just how many stabbings and shootings go down and get covered up before they ever hit the news.

“There may have been a shootout yesterday between two groups of people,” Crowley says, as though Sam doesn’t already know whom they’re supposed to be investigating.

“Was one of them the Reapers?” Sam asks anyway—even though he’s about ninety-nine percent sure, it’s still best not to assume.

“That is a possibility,” Crowley says noncommittally. “So, would you mind making the drive to Morada? I think it’d be best if you spoke with your brother in person rather than over the phone. Tricky things, wires. Someone could be listening.”

“Yeah, I can drive up,” Sam responds. “Is there anything else you want me to ask? Do you know who was shot?”

“I think you’ll find it wise, Sam, to restrain yourself from asking too many questions.”

“I’m your legal advisor, Crowley. Don’t you think this would work better if I was in on everything that was going on?” Sam argues.

“Not necessarily. Trust me; I will tell you everything that you need to know. This is my case, and I know it better than anyone else. Your input will only be useful when I decide that it is.”

Frowning, Sam says, “Fine. I’ll get you your information about… hiding places. Do you—”

“Take this phone,” Crowley says, holding out an old flip phone. “Call me with your brother’s response, and then throw the phone away.”

“Don’t you think this is a little overboard?” Sam says, raising an eyebrow.

“You can never be too careful, Sam. Remember that,” Crowley answers, brandishing the phone at him.

Sam accepts it and gets out of the car, shutting the door behind him. There’s almost no one out here at this time of day, just a woman walking across the street from him, going in the opposite direction. Sam really doesn’t know what Crowley is so paranoid about, but he hopes it’s all for nothing.

Heaving a sigh, he heads back toward his apartment—he’ll want to change into something more comfortable if he’s gonna be dropping by to see Dean.

* * *

When they take William into a private visitation room, he isn’t sure what to expect. There’ve been setups like this in the past when one club needed to kill a member of another club, and since he hardly ever hears anything from the outside, William constantly has to be on his guard. Sure, prisoners aren’t allowed weapons, but only a fool would believe that that silly little rule could stop any of ‘em.

He’s seated at a square, metal table, bolted to the ground. The benches are bolted down, too, and William himself usually has his ankles shackled as well. Today he’s not chained to the ground because he’s been on good behavior, but his hands are still cuffed, and if they bring someone in to take him out, he will definitely be at a disadvantage. There’s a clock on the wall, but it’s too high up to be useful.

The door opens, and he looks up immediately, wary, but he doesn’t think anything could have prepared him for the sight of his wife, walking through the doorway.

“Ellen,” he breathes, and he tries to count, but he honestly has no clue how long it’s been since he last saw her. “Oh, I missed you.”

She smiles shakily and crosses the room to sit next to him on the bench. “Bill, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” William answers, closing his eyes when Ellen leans in for a kiss. She looks sad when she pulls away, and William says, “Oh, honey, you know you don’t have to worry ‘bout me. I’ll be out of here before you know it.”

His reassurance doesn’t even make the corners of her lips twitch upward, not even a little, and when she turns away, William knows that something serious has happened. Hell, that should’ve been his first thought—Little Jimmy specifically advised the club to visit as little as possible, if they wanted William to make parole.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, lifting both hands so he can touch her shoulder—these cuffs are a damn nuisance. “Is it—is it Jo?”

“No, thank god. Jo’s fine,” Ellen says, but she doesn’t look relieved at all.

“Well, what is it?” William prods.

“Bill…” Ellen sighs, shakes her head.

“Go on. Tell me what happened. Did someone try and lay a finger on you?”

“No, it was nothing like that,” Ellen says quickly. Licking her lips, she looks back up at him and says, “Cas got shot by a member of the ‘Nines, yesterday. Jules sent me here to tell you that.”

“ _Oh_ ,” William says. Now _that_ he hadn’t expected. “Is he alive, though?”

“Yes. Last night, Jules said that he’d be all right,” she replies, and William breathes a sigh of relief. “Bill, you’re not gonna—”

“Of course I am,” William interrupts. “If they opened fire on us and shot our VP, you can be damn sure I’ll deal whatever retaliation I see fit. Especially if Jules asked for me specifically.”

Ellen looks down at her lap. “Bill, it—it hasn’t been _easy_ , these years, and I just thought—”

“It hasn’t been easy for me either, darling,” William says, tipping Ellen’s chin up to make her look at him. “But I gotta do what I gotta do. They’re my family as much as you and Jo are. I love you, but I love them, too—you know that.”

“Yeah,” Ellen says with a heavy sigh. She shakes her head, and her eyes have gone watery, but she smiles anyway, and that’s what William loves so much about her. “Well, s’long as you don’t get yourself killed, Jo and I can wait for you. It’s already been almost two decades; what’s another couple years?”

And now that she’s put it that way, _William_ almost feels ready to shed a tear. He leans in closer, wishing his hands weren’t cuffed so he could get an arm around her shoulders properly. “Oh, oh, baby, don’t cry. We’ll be together again soon, I promise.”

Ellen leans against him gently and says, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Bill.”

“You know I don’t,” William responds, and it’s a lie—of course it’s a lie. They both know it, but William’s grateful that Ellen doesn’t push it.

He knows exactly what he’s gotta do, and it’ll be damn near impossible for him to pull it off without getting himself into trouble. He’ll never be able to get through his parole hearing—it might be canceled altogether, even.

But William has always done what’s best for the club, for his family, and he won’t change that now.

A guard bangs on the door then with the two minute warning, and Ellen sighs.

“Everything’s gonna be fine,” William says. They’re hollow words, but he’s gotta say them. Maybe if he says them enough times, they’ll come true.

Ellen doesn’t respond, just stays where she is, warm and reassuring against his shoulder.

“Tell Jo I miss her. I can’t wait to see her again, see how much she’s grown. She’s a nurse, right?”

“Not yet. She’s in nursing school,” Ellen corrects him, but hell if those aren’t the same thing in William’s mind. He doesn’t think half the kids who had to jump in as medics when they were in ‘Nam had any sort of _nurse schooling_.

“Jimmy brought me a picture of her last time he was here,” William says. “She’s gorgeous. Takes after you and not me, thank goodness.”

That makes Ellen laugh a little, at least. “I love you, Bill,” she says when she’s quieted down again.

“I know, baby. I love you, too,” William answers.

They lean against each other and listen to the ticking of the clock on the wall, counting down their last minute together.

* * *

Ed is reading the morning newspaper when his son walks in, looking less than pleased. “Everything all right, Christian?” he asks, lowering the paper.

“Yeah. Yesterday’s sales went well,” Christian answers, but he still seems uncomfortable, hesitant. After a pause, he says, “I uh, well, I’m starting to think that I’m being a bit paranoid right now because of everything that’s going on, y’know, with the Leviathans, and with Johnny, and all.”

“What’s going on?” Ed asks, frowning. It’s unlike Christian to ramble like that.

“I thought I saw someone tailing me yesterday,” Christian says quickly.

That’s worrisome. “What did he look like?” Ed asks.

“I’m not really sure—I couldn’t see him clearly. The guy had his hood up, and it was kinda dark when I noticed him hanging around. But he definitely got into a car and followed me to three different sales. I wasn’t packing, so I figured it’d be stupid to confront the guy with just a knife.”

“You did right, son,” Ed says. It’s certainly true—he can hardly bear to think what would have happened if Christian had tried to intimidate the tail only to get a gun pointed at his own face. “If you see him again, call me immediately.”

“I can do that,” Christian says. “So uh, could you check with Samuel on that?”

“Yeah. You go on ahead.”

Christian nods and heads out.

A moment later, Ed sets the paper down on the breakfast table and takes out his cell phone. He has to wait six rings before Samuel picks up.

“Yeah,” Samuel says gruffly.

It sounds like he’s not in a patient mood today, so Ed just starts right off with, “Christian thought someone was tailing him when he was in Lodi yesterday. You got any idea who that could’ve been?”

Samuel is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Well, we know the Reapers have never been interested in the business, so I think we can rule them out right away. The Leviathans wouldn’t bother because they know enough about our operation in Lodi.”

“Do you think our friends in Stockton might’ve somehow gotten word that we wanted to move into Morada, then?” Ed asks. The family hasn’t interacted much with the Demons over the years, but what interactions have passed between them have always tended toward hostile.

“It’s impossible. Even if Dick were to double-cross us, it wouldn’t be with them,” Samuel reasons. “He hates Abaddon about as much as he hates the Reapers, if not more, and Amazons MC and the Demons are practically one entity, at this point. There’s no way he’d invite any of them into Lodi.”

“They don’t need Dick’s permission to enter the city,” Ed points out.

“No, but that still leaves them actually knowing about our plans, doesn’t it?” Samuel says. “They can’t have found out through any of us, and Dick hates them too much to give up our plans to them. I’m positive it’s not them.”

“Okay,” Ed says, feeling slightly reassured. “Who else do you think it might be, then?”

“Might be someone who’s unaffiliated, just picking a target,” Samuel says. “Just tell him to be careful. It’ll be all right.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am,” Samuel responds evenly.

“All right, then,” Ed says. Samuel hangs up, and Ed puts his phone down.

It’s good to know that the tail probably wasn’t put on Christian by the Demons, but still—it’s fucking dangerous, the fact that someone might be tailing Christian around like that.

* * *

Per Alpha’s instructions, Eli makes a quick drive back to Oakland to swap his sedan out for a van. It’s not a good sign, because the only real upside to having a van instead of a sedan is that it’s easier to transport a body—or multiple bodies—in a van.

God, he hopes it won’t come to that.

In Oakland, Eli gets a moment in the house to talk to Lenore and reassure her that everything’s gonna be fine before he’s heading back out to Morada with Luther in the passenger seat—when they get there, Luther’s job is to take Boris’s sedan back to Oakland, since he and Eli will be sharing the van. Things might get ugly, so the less bodies and cars they’ve got in Morada, the better.

They’ve been on the road for about twenty minutes when Eli asks his companion, “The hell did you do yesterday, anyway?”

Luther lets out a put-upon sigh. “I already had to deal with Benny’s accusing jabs the whole drive back last night. Are you seriously about to start on me now?”

“Hey, just asking a question.”

“Yeah, well, _don’t_.”

And that’s a little uncalled for, because Eli definitely hadn’t expected to come home and see Alpha’s arm all bandaged up. Of course he said that he was fine, because the man’s level of tolerance for pain is absolutely off the charts, and he’s never worked up or worried about anything, but Eli hadn’t liked seeing it. Alpha’s been his father for over twenty years now, and seeing him hurt has never gone over well, not for him _or_ for Benny.

“You do realize it’s your fault he got shot, don’t you?” Eli says when he can’t hold it in any longer.

“Oh, can you not—”

“I may not know exactly what you did, but Benny—”

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry! Now just, just stop,” Luther says, thrusting his hands up in the air with frustration.

“Y’know, you’ve got a lot of attitude for someone who’s in the wrong,” Eli says.

Luther sighs again, more subdued this time. “What am I supposed to say? I already know I was wrong and impulsive. Now what, you want me to shoot myself to make up for it?”

Eli chooses not to respond to that, and they’re quiet for the rest of the drive.

* * *

The trouble with being stuck in a hospital bed is exactly that—he’s stuck in a hospital bed. Apparently the fractures in his legs are gonna heal up just fine, and if it were just that, he’d already be up on crutches. But he’s also got cracked ribs, and they seriously mess with him whenever he tries to sit up, which is something he’s been told that he shouldn’t be doing, anyway.

But Christ, it’s boring in here. There’s only so much daytime television a man can be subject to before he goes nuts, and Jimmy thinks he passed that point before he even _got_ to the hospital.

A light knock on the open door draws his attention to the doorway, and he breathes, “Oh, thank _god_ ,” at the sight of his mother pausing in the opening.

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, which—isn’t a good sign. “Well, I don’t think you’ve ever been this happy to see me, before,” she comments, but the amusement in her tone just doesn’t sound genuine—Mom is great at masking her emotions from everyone in the world, but not from Jimmy, and not from Cas.

So Jimmy asks, “What’s going on?”

Mom doesn’t bother trying to hide it, letting the smile fade. She steps fully into the room and closes the door behind her. “Cas has been shot,” she says then.

There’s a moment of disbelief, a moment during which Jimmy just waits for the punchline, waits for Mom to laugh and say that she’s just messing with him, except that he knows she would never joke, at least never about this.

“He’s all right,” Mom goes on, but the grim look on her face makes Jimmy doubt that, just a little.

“Is he in the hospital? Can I—”

“He’s not,” Mom interrupts before Jimmy can go on. “And even if he were, you’re under doctor’s orders not to get up without assistance, so you wouldn’t be able to visit him anyway, all right?”

Jimmy doesn’t bother to point out that Mom could technically ‘assist’ him if he really wanted her to, skipping on to a more important topic—“Where is he, then, if he’s not at the hospital?”

Mom purses her lips, a severe look crossing her face, and then she answers, “Dean Winchester’s house.”

That explains why she looks so upset. Cas getting shot is awful, but it’s certainly happened before, and Mom doesn’t get quite as insane about it as she used to get. Dean showing back up in Cas’s life, though, that’s different. Jimmy sees his own worry reflected in his mother’s eyes, and he wishes there was something he could do about it, but hell, he can’t even reassure himself. How is he supposed to reassure his mom?

“Is he conscious?” Jimmy asks after a long moment.

“He wasn’t when I went to see him, but it was ‘cause he’d been under some meds. He’ll be all right,” Mom replies. The look on her face says otherwise, and part of Jimmy can’t help but agree. At least they can be reasonably sure that he’ll be all right, physically. Dean _is_ a surgeon, after all.

“Yeah, I’m sure he will be,” Jimmy says, but the words feel empty.

“Where’s Amelia?” Mom asks, changing topics, and Jimmy doesn’t know whether or not to be grateful about it. On the one hand, he _really_ doesn’t wanna talk about Dean, but on the other, he’s beginning to think they might have to, if Cas keeps coming into contact with him.

“She has a job interview scheduled for today, after dropping Claire off at school. She’ll be back here around noon,” Jimmy answers.

“Well, I s’pose I could stick around ‘til then,” Mom says, drawing up one of the chairs and sitting down next to the bed. Jimmy smiles gratefully.

* * *

“Sam,” Ruby says, looking up from her laptop when he comes in the door. “What’re you doing home so early? I thought you said that agent who requested you finally had some work for you to do.”

“Eh, it’s not really any sort of legal work,” Sam answers, shrugging out of his jacket as he heads toward the bedroom. “

“Oh. What kinda work is it, then?” Ruby prods, setting her laptop aside and getting up off the couch.

Sam shrugs. “The kinda work that requires me to pay Dean a visit,” he answers as he yanks open a drawer to get a t-shirt.

“Your brother, huh? Can I come with?”

“Well… it’s kinda on business, so you probably shouldn’t,” Sam says, casting an apologetic look in her direction as he unbuttons his shirt. “Maybe next time.”

“Did something serious happen?” Ruby asks, frowning as she goes over and helps Sam get the shirt off his gigantic shoulders. She knows that Sam’s brother lives in Morada and that the Winchesters used to be part of the Reapers, but Sam has told her in no uncertain terms that they’ve got nothing to do with any sort of clubs at all, anymore. Still…

“I don’t know much, but apparently someone’s been shot,” Sam replies, yanking a clean shirt over his head.

Ruby just drapes the slightly wrinkled, white polo shirt over her arm and chews her lower lip because yeah, that _definitely_ sounds like it could be gang-related.

“My guess is, it’s probably one of the Reapers,” Sam continues, changing out of his dress pants and tossing them on the bed before reaching for a pair of jeans.

That doesn’t sound good. Who would be in a tiff with the Reapers right now, of all times? Ruby knows for sure that it wouldn’t be anyone from the club, but what about the Demons? Azazel’s down with holding back, at least for now, so it shouldn’t be them. Even if Lilith wanted to move on the Reapers, she would’ve had to convince Azazel first, seeing as they’re both co-head-honchos down there.

She should probably call Abaddon, see what’s going on.

“Ruby?”

“Yeah,” Ruby says instantly, her attention snapping back to Sam, who is now looking at her with a bit of concern in his gaze. “Sorry, got distracted.”

“Uh huh. Right after I mentioned Reapers getting shot—did you guys have anything to do with this?”

“No. No, I promise,” Ruby answers. “I was just thinking about how glad I am that you’re not part of any of that crap.”

“Right,” Sam says slowly. “The crap that you’re a part of, you mean.”

“Hey, clubs aren’t the same; you know that,” Ruby says. Then she grins, looking her boyfriend up and down, and says, “Y’know, you should dress like this more often.” He’s in a V-neck and jeans, and hot _damn_ does he look fine. If he weren’t getting ready to go out, she’d totally be all over him.

“Sure, if it makes you happy,” Sam answers obligingly, heading back out into the living room.

Ruby follows him all the way to the front door. “When d’you think you’ll be back?”

“No clue. I’ll text you, ‘kay?”

“Okay. Don’t get shot,” Ruby warns, and Sam chuckles, leaning down for a kiss.

“Bye,” he murmurs, pressed up all nice and close, and Ruby smiles.

* * *

Abaddon is riding when her phone starts vibrating in her pocket, so she signals to Bela that she’s pulling over, and they come to a stop on the shoulder just in time for Abaddon to dig the phone out of her pocket and answer it.

“Hello, Ruby,” she says. “You change your mind about taking today off?”

“Uh, no. I was just wondering if you’d gotten any news coming from Morada lately,” Ruby says.

“Why? What have you heard?” Abaddon asks.

“Well, it’s… it’s nothing concrete, but it sounds kinda like one of the Reapers mighta been shot.”

“Shot?” Abaddon repeats, surprised, watching as Bela’s eyebrows shoot up. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Ruby admits. “I’m not even sure it was one of the Reapers—I just know that uh, that there’s an ATF agent in Morada, and I don’t think he’d be interested if anyone else got shot.”

“Uh huh,” Abaddon says slowly. “And you know this how?”

“I heard it from an assistant in the DA’s office—his name is Marcus, and he was picked to assist that ATF agent on a case. I don’t know for sure that it’s a case against the Reapers, obviously, but again, Morada’s a pretty small town, so…”

“Marcus,” Abaddon repeats, just to be sure she heard correctly.

“Yeah.”

Abaddon can’t exactly _hear_ any artifice, but it just seems so _random_. Still, she decides not to press. If Ruby is keeping secrets, it’s better to let her think she’s safe—she’ll be more likely to let down her guard.

“I didn’t know whether or not to tell you because I wasn’t sure it was true,” Ruby adds after a moment.

“All right. Good of you to check in,” Abaddon says. “Anything else you wanna tell me?”

“Nope; that was it,” Ruby says.

She sounds just as sure as before, and Abaddon lets it lie for the time being. “Bye, then,” she says, and hangs up the phone.

“Who got shot?” Bela asks.

“Ruby isn’t sure, but she heard it was one of the Reapers. Apparently she’s gotten cozy with some kid from the DA’s office named Marcus.”

Bela shrugs. “That’s not a bad thing, right? We could use someone in the DA’s office.”

“That depends on who this ‘Marcus’ is,” Abaddon says. Hmm, so Ruby said that “Marcus” was working with some agent from the ATF. That can be verified easily enough. “I need to make a call,” she says to Bela. “You mind waiting?”

“When have I ever?”

Abaddon just smiles and scrolls down her contacts until she gets to the C’s. She waits two rings before the call connects, and the first thing she hears is—

“Oh god, not _you_ again.”

She laughs, unable to help it. “Oh darling, I know you live for our little talks.”

“You know I do,” Cecily says warmly. “So, what can I do for you? It’s been a while since you did the calling—did something happen?”

“Nothing that you’ve gotta worry about,” Abaddon answers. “I just need you to check a fact for me. By the way, why didn’t you tell me that a case was being made against the Reapers?”

After a pause, Cecily says, “I uh, I wasn’t aware that you cared about that MC.”

“I said that I wanted information if the ATF ever started to make moves in this area,” Abaddon reminds her friend, because she remembers specifically wording it that way.

Cecily doesn’t bother to argue, because she’s sensible. “Okay. Well, I know that my friend Crowley was put on the case, and that’s pretty much it. Did you want me to find something out about it?”

“I just wanna know which lawyer from the DA’s office is attached to the case,” Abaddon says.

“Oh,” Cecily says. “Oh, I can dig up that information and—”

“Wait, you sounded surprised. Why?” Abaddon interrupts.

“It’s nothing. Just, you usually aren’t interested in the legal side of things,” Cecily explains. When Abaddon says nothing, she falters a little before going on, “Anyway, like I was saying, I can dig up the information and have it to you in a couple hours. I’m kind of on an important deadline right now.”

“That’s acceptable.”

“Okay,” Cecily says, sounding relieved. “I’ll call you back later, then.”

“I look forward to it,” Abaddon says before hanging up.

Bela is leaning on her bike, across from Abaddon, and she straightens as Abaddon puts her phone away. “Verdict?”

“We’re gonna have Meg give Luce a call, see if she can get his tongue to wag. Hell, if he doesn’t pick up, maybe he was the one who got shot,” Abaddon says.

Then she frowns, because Reapers getting shot isn’t good news. Have the Leviathans and Campbells started moving already? That _definitely_ doesn’t bode well. She’s gonna have to reach out to Jules, and soon, if they’re to stop the Leviathans from squashing the Reapers and moving on down to Stockton.

“Back to the bar, then?” Bela says, swinging a leg over her bike.

“Back to the bar,” Abaddon confirms, and they go on their way.

* * *

There are times when Linda wishes she’d taken her high school librarian’s advice and just gone to be a librarian. She wouldn’t have to deal with all these _people_ , at least. Books are easy. Books don’t whine and complain like _people_ do, god.

But she needs to tone down her negativity. It’s not all bad, working at St. David’s. She’s only in a bad mood because she just finished shutting down a desperate man raving about his wife’s skin graft—the woman suffered second-degree burns on her left cheek that were exacerbated because her husband was too pigheaded to take her to the hospital right away. It was his fault, but he kept trying to get the hospital to take responsibility for carrying out the operation.

Of _course_ they’d had to go through with the operation, Linda had argued. Did he seriously want his wife to come out of the hospital looking like Harvey fucking Dent?

The man had gawped at her then—not about the profanity; Linda had filtered that out because she was still supposed to be maintaining a professional attitude toward a client. No, he’d been gaping because it was out of his grasp that an older Asian woman might have actually seen a Batman movie or read a comic or two.

Jesus Christ, it wasn’t as though Linda _looked_ like a fob. And she had a twenty-year-old son who was _very_ into superheroes, so she was all up-to-date on the latest movies, because unlike some parents, she liked to be able to actually _talk_ to her son.

But Mr. Pay-for-my-wife’s-skin-graft didn’t have the benefit of knowing that, and Linda couldn’t exactly punish him for it.

Whatever. The conversation was over; with any luck, she wouldn’t have to deal with him again.

Her phone rings then, and she sighs. If it’s another person with a complaint, she’ll… well, she’ll handle it, she finishes with a sigh. She’ll handle it, like she has to handle every goddamn thing that goes wrong in this hospital. Why on _earth_ did she ever decide to be an administrator? She does so much work and gets no respect for it because she doesn’t have a fancy _medical_ degree.

The caller ID says that it’s Dr. Winchester on the line, and Linda smiles with relief, because thank _god_ , she actually _likes_ this doctor. “Dean,” she says into the receiver when she picks up. “How are you?”

“Uh, I’m doing okay,” Dean says, a bit gruffly. “I’m not coming in for my shift today—sorry. I feel like I’m coming down with something.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Linda says. “Well, don’t worry ‘bout it. We don’t have any surgeries scheduled for today, and I’m sure I can ask Andrea to cover for you if anything comes up.”

“Okay, great. Thanks.”

“Are you gonna be okay? I mean—do you need anything? I could probably stop by on lunch break,” Linda offers, glancing at the clock. Noon is about an hour and a half away, but she can take off around eleven if she wants to. That’s _one_ benefit to being a hospital administrator—she has some control over her work schedule. Small comforts.

“Oh no, thanks,” Dean answers. “I’ve got everything I need at home. Just gonna hole up here for the day. I’ll let you know whether or not I can come in tomorrow.”

“All right. Get better soon, then,” Linda says.

“I’ll try,” Dean huffs, and then he hangs up.

Linda sets her phone down and gets up to go change the schedule up front. They’ve upgraded their operating systems recently, and she still hasn’t gotten the hang of the remote access from her desktop deal; it’s easier for her to just go out there and manually remove people from the schedule.

She’ll get it, eventually.

On her way out, she passes by Dean’s office and sees a man standing outside, frowning at the closed door.

“Can I help you?” she asks, and he starts a little, spins to face her.

“Oh. Uh, I was just looking for Dr. Winchester. Is he around somewhere?”

“He’s not in today,” Linda says. “Are you… a patient? Or family—”

“Actually, I’m Dean’s brother,” the man interrupts, and that brings Linda up short. She’d known that Dean had a brother, but…

“You don’t look anything like him,” she observes.

The man laughs and sticks his hand out. “Sam Winchester,” he offers.

Linda shakes his hand and returns, “Linda Tran. I’m an administrator here. Your brother actually said that he was home sick, today. I was just going to change his status.”

“Oh,” Sam says, looking surprised. “That’s what I get for coming up here without checking with him first, I guess.”

“You know where he lives, right?” Linda asks. “He’d appreciate you stopping by, if he’s not feeling well.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Sam says, chuckling. “But anyway, thanks. I’ll find him at home.”

“All right. It was nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, nice meeting you,” Sam repeats to her as he walks away. Linda watches him turn the corner before going on her own way.

* * *

Samuel turns the cell phone over and over in his hand, trying to decide whether or not he should make the call. He really doesn’t know who else to go to with the information that his grandnephew is potentially being tailed by some unknown person—Christian is sensible. He wouldn’t have gone to Ed with this information unless he was reasonably sure that he was being tailed by someone.

It shouldn’t be the Reapers or the Leviathans, though. Samuel said so to Ed over the phone earlier, and even after taking some time to really think about it, he still believes it.

The Demons are the most likely culprit, seeing as they’ve been looking to expand northward for years. Really, they’ve only been held back because the Reapers have been vocal about keeping to the status quo, and because the Demons are uninterested in taking on the Leviathans, with or without help from the Amazons.

And that’s another thing: the Demons and Amazons know that moving in to take Lodi would require taking out both Campbell family and the Leviathans on their home ground, in addition to crossing Reaper territory without stirring shit up, so why the hell would they want to even _try_ that? Even if they found out that the Campbells started an alliance with Leviathans MC, that should only dissuade them from moving on Lodi, because they’d be facing a unified front.

Samuel has spent far too long puzzling this out, and to hell with it—he’s calling Crowley. Maybe what he needs is someone to look at the situation from the outside.

So he dials the number and waits. When Crowley picks up, Samuel wastes no time on pleasantries, diving straight into the issue. He refuses Crowley’s request to meet in person, because he is done humoring Crowley’s cloak and dagger antics. It’s time to get serious.

When Samuel’s finally done talking, Crowley is quiet. Samuel gives him a minute to think before demanding, “Well?”

“Well, what? You’ve been quite rude to me today, Grandpa,” Crowley says.

Samuel bristles at his tone and says, “I called because I had a question for you. Can you answer it or not? If not, I’m not gonna waste my time talking to you.”

“If you’re going to be like that, then I can’t help you,” Crowley says, infuriatingly, because he knows what he’s implying—he has noticed something that Samuel hasn’t.

“Please tell me,” Samuel forces out. He needs the information, if not for the good of the family as a whole, at least for Christian’s safety.

“That’s a mite better,” Crowley says, and Samuel tries his best not to grind his teeth to nubs. “Well, as someone who isn’t embroiled in the middle of your little drama, I’ve noticed that you left out a very important player in your analysis of the game.”

Crowley pauses there, probably for effect. Samuel doesn’t know what effect he could possibly be going for, but if he’s trying to be as annoying as possible, he’s achieved it.

“The ‘Nines,” Crowley finally says, and _oh_. That’s…

That does change things. Damn it, Crowley even mentioned them before, but Samuel’s memory really isn’t what it used to be.

“They’re also a very important part of this equation,” Crowley goes on. “The big players have sensed that things might be shifting, and they’re taking the chance to cut themselves a bigger slice of the pie. Maybe they’ve noticed that you’re getting on in years and don’t have a suitable successor capable of holding down the fort.”

At this, Samuel wants to protest, but he honestly doesn’t know whether Ed or Robert would be comfortable taking control of things, and he certainly couldn’t leave control to any of his grandnephews. His grandniece is probably cleverer than the other three combined, but she’s still so young—

“So,” Crowley says, drawing his attention back to the conversation. “The vultures are circling, Samuel. You need to decide what to do.”

“I just wanna know who’s tailing my grandnephew,” Samuel says, because that’s his priority right now, and he can think about the rest when he’s not on the phone with this asshole.

“At this point? Could be anyone,” Crowley says unhelpfully. But he must sense Samuel’s impatience because he adds, a beat later, “My money’s on the ‘Nines, but I could be wrong.”

“All right,” Samuel says, getting ready to hang up.

“By the way,” Crowley says, “did you hear about the shooting that happened yesterday evening? Word is, the ‘Nines tried to wheedle your friendly neighborhood bikers to join their side.”

“Where’d you hear that from?” Samuel asks, frowning. As far as he knows, Crowley is mostly staying in Stockton, isn’t he? It’s weird that he’d get news from Morada before Samuel. But then again, Crowley would have an in with the police. Deputy Henriksen is always breathing down everyone’s necks in this town, and figures he’d go to the ATF agent as soon as anything happened.

“Does it matter?” Crowley replies flippantly. “Well, I’ve done my good deed for the day. Goodbye, now.”

Samuel doesn’t bother responding before hanging up.

Crowley’s a sack o’ shit, that’s for sure, but at least he’s got his head on straight. It doesn’t matter that the meeting went sour—the fact that a meeting took place between the ‘Nines and the Reapers means that the ‘Nines are interested in Lodi. And if they’re interested, well. It makes sense for them to do a bit of fieldwork and see what kind of potential this bit of real estate has.

Samuel hasn’t dealt much with the ‘Nines over the years, but if everything they say is to be believed, Alpha Worthington is a powerful man.

Well, Samuel guesses they’ll see about that.

* * *

Sorento has been on the inside for a long time. Long enough that he hardly remembers how it was to be _outside_. It’s been… something like thirty-five years already, and he doesn’t even really _want_ to be on the outside anymore.

It isn’t as though there’s anyone out there waiting for him.

Not anymore, anyway.

Now he just reads his books and minds his own business for the most part, ‘cept for when members of the ‘Nines or their friends end up here. He always does his part, looking after them, making sure they get in touch with the right people.

This year, it’s Quentin. He’s a good kid, exactly twenty years younger than Sorento, in here on a drugs possession charge. Stupid of him to get caught, but he’ll get out soon. The jail system is crowded as it is, and they need to save space for murderers. Y’know, the people who’ve actually committed _real_ crimes.

“You done yet?” Quentin grouses from a few rows over.

Sorento chuckles. “Not quite,” he replies, continuing down the row of books.

It’s nice that they’ve actually got a library in this place. When he first got in, he wasn’t allowed in this area. Now that he’s mellowed out, he’s one of the few inmates who frequent the place. Good place for a private talk, it is—no one thinks to come looking for people here.

Then there’s a muffled grunt, followed by a squelching sound, and Sorento hurries back down the row and around to the place where he’d last heard Quentin, his heart in his throat.

Famine Harvelle is standing there, a bloody penknife clutched in his bloody hand, and Sorento backs up a step, mute. Quentin lies at his feet, blood gushing from the puncture wound in the side of his neck. That much blood is definitely arterial spray; Sorento’s been on the inside long enough to know that.

“Nothing personal,” Famine says, nonchalant. “You can say whatever you like to your keepers, but this was just retaliation.”

Retaliation for what?

Sorento doesn’t even bother to ask. He’ll hear about it from his side, after this. He just doesn’t know why they didn’t say something _earlier_. This death isn’t completely on Sorento, but…

He sighs.

It’s so quiet here. Famine exits the way he entered, and Sorento is left there with a cooling body a few feet from him.

Good place for a murder too, apparently, Sorento thinks wryly before going to get the guards. One of them is friendly with the gang; he’ll take a message out to the ‘Nines.

* * *

It’s tense and fucking annoying, sitting at home with Luce there, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to go to work like this. Luce being at his house was all sorts of inconvenient, because he knew that the guy would let any of the Reapers in s’long as they showed up, and sure, maybe Dean would do it too, but at least Dean would be _there_.

The last thing Dean wants is the MC all deciding to just commandeer his place.

It doesn’t help that Naomi probably still has a spare key, from back when she and Mom were close. Christ, she was the one who first had the responsibility of keeping the place all cleaned up after Dad… after Dean and Sam had had to move in with the Novaks, that is.

But god, Dean just wishes there were something more interesting he could be doing, here at home. Luce is in the kitchen, on the phone with Meg, and Dean’s trying his best not to listen in on them, because he really doesn’t care what they’re talking about, but there’s nothing else for him to do.

He’d go talk to Cas, except that he doesn’t _want_ to talk to Cas, not after this morning’s disaster. Cas had gone ahead and asked _that_ question, and how the hell was Dean _supposed_ to respond? He couldn’t exactly tell the truth, not without screwing up Cas’s perspective of his mom, which—Naomi’s one of the only family members Cas has got left, and Dean knows how valuable that is. Last thing he wants is to put that issue between them.

And then there was the whole messy thing about _love_ that Limey brought up last night. Fuck, it’s one thing for Limey to say that Cas loves him, but it’s another thing entirely to look at Cas’s familiar face and just not know _for sure_. It’d be so freaking awkward to ask Cas about his feelings when they’re still… the way that they are.

Well, he wouldn’t be able to talk to Cas even if he’d wanted to, anyway—Dean forced him to take some painkillers about half an hour ago because his face was looking really pinched, and he’s probably still knocked out at the moment.

Someone knocks on the door then, halting Dean’s train of thought, and he gets up off the couch, thankful for the distraction. The only thing worse than brooding here on his own is brooding here with a sulky biker, because yeah, Luce is totally sulking about being stuck here to look after Cas.

“Dean, you home?” a voice calls before Dean can reach the door, and shit, _Sam_.

Dean spins around, ready to usher Luce out of sight, but thankfully the guy’s smart enough to know that it’s time to hide, because he’s already out of the kitchen, heading down the hall toward the bedrooms.

After a quick count to three, Dean unlocks the door and pulls it open. “Sammy,” he says, flashing a quick smile. “Uh, what’re you doing here?”

“Checking up on you,” Sam says. Before Dean can speak, he asks, “Do you have someone over?”

“Uh, no. Of course not,” Dean answers completely unconvincingly, because apparently one morning of awkwardness is enough to turn him into an idiot who can’t even _lie_ properly anymore.

“Well, you don’t _look_ sick.”

“Oh. You’ve been to the hospital,” Dean says.

Sam nods and says, “Yeah. Your supervisor is under the impression that you’re at home with the flu or something. Look—Dean, if there’s no one else here, why is there a motorcycle outside?”

Dean just sighs and lets his head hang for a sec because damn it, he’d forgotten—Luce had to have gotten here _somehow_. “Okay,” he says, looking back up at Sam again. “Don’t freak out, but Luce is here.”

Sam frowns. “What—you mean Luce as in Lucifer Milton?” he asks, but before Dean can even answer, he’s shaking his head, pushing past Dean and into the living room. “No, that can’t be right. I mean, we haven’t talked to the Miltons in forever. And even if you were to invite one of them over, it’d be Mike, not Luce.”

Dean pushes the front door shut and turns quickly to snatch Sam’s arm, but Sam is ready for him and sprints forward, and shit, the hallway isn’t long enough for Dean to catch up with him—

Sam shoves the door to the guest room open and freezes in the doorway. Before he can say anything, Dean reaches him and clamps a hand down over his mouth. With any luck, Luce didn’t hear them coming down the hall, still on the phone with Meg in Dean’s room.

“C’mon,” Dean hisses, yanking Sam back toward the living room. “Trust me.”

Sam doesn’t really put up a fight, letting Dean usher him back down the hall. Dean lunges back for a second just to— _quietly_ —pull the door to the guest room shut, and then he goes into the living room, where Sam is waiting expectantly.

“Look, you’ve gotta get outta here and pretend you don’t know a thing,” Dean says. When Sam opens his mouth to protest, Dean says, “I just don’t want Luce to go after you.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Dean says. “It’s Cas’s safety we’re talking about. You know Luce would do anything to protect him. To protect any of the club, really.”

Sam nods, conceding his point. “All right, fine. But you owe me an explanation.”

“I’m going to the Roadhouse tonight to meet up with Jo,” Dean says. “If you go there, we can grab a table and talk after catching up with her and Ellen, all right?”

Sam considers it for a moment before nodding. “Okay, I’ll just go, then.”

“No, not yet,” Dean says, herding him toward the kitchen. “It’d be suspicious if you only came over for like five seconds, right? Stay for a beer.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says, sitting down at the table.

Dean grabs two beers from the fridge. Yeah, this was so _not_ the kind of distraction he was waiting for.

* * *

Alastair watches as Sam walks out the front door. He hadn’t expected him to show up here, today. After all, he was under the impression that the younger Winchester had a day job.

Just as suspicious, the sedan from before has gone. In its place is a van, and Alastair can’t tell from his vantage point whether or not someone is sitting up front, but he doesn’t like its presence here. Perhaps it’s a little too paranoid to think that it’s the same person, parked right across the street from Dean’s house. The change of cars _should_ mean that it’s someone else and that there is no imminent threat, but what if it’s a group of people taking turns?

Sam has gotten into his car now, and Alastair debates his options. He can either stay here and keep watching the house, or tail Sam and find out why he isn’t at work today. The latter seems far more interesting and should be more fruitful, since Dean doesn’t look like he’ll be moving anytime soon.

So when Sam starts his car, Alastair does as well, waiting until Sam has already pulled away from the curb before doing so himself.

About fifteen minutes later, Alastair regrets his decision. Sam is still sitting in a restaurant, eating, and there is absolutely _nothing_ interesting about that, because Alastair isn’t even interested in Sam beyond the fact that he is Dean’s younger brother.

Feeling restless, Alastair decides to go to the police station in lieu of returning to Dean’s house and boring himself some more. Once there, he steps out of the car and straightens up a bit before walking up to the front and going inside.

“Hello, everyone. I’m Agent Kane from the FBI,” he says, flashing his badge to the room at large. “Who’s in charge here?”

“That would be Chief Turner, but he’s not here right now. I’m the next best thing,” a young, dark-skinned man says, stepping forward. Extending his hand, he introduces himself as, “Deputy Henriksen.”

“Nice to meet you, Deputy,” Alastair says.

“Here—we can talk in my office,” the deputy says, leading the way through the room and to a hallway.

From there, they enter a small office. The deputy gestures toward the couch set up against the side wall, but Alastair chooses to stand, so the deputy remains on his feet as well.

“So, I’m guessing you’re here to assist the ATF on the Reaper case,” Deputy Henriksen says.

“Yes,” Alastair replies. “I’d like to be up to speed, if you would be so kind.”

“Oh. I don’t have all the details of the investigation—Agent Crowley only came up to Morada the day before yesterday, and he hasn’t seen fit to share his information with our department.”

“Ah,” Alastair says, displeased. “I was told that you’d be able to tell me everything I wanted to know.”

“No, not quite,” Henriksen responds. “If you don’t mind waiting, I could call Crowley for you.”

“I am perfectly capable of calling the man myself,” Alastair says before Henriksen can even start toward his desk phone. “Thank you for your cooperation. I’ll see myself out, now.”

“Okay, then,” Henriksen says with a frown. “I s’pose I’ll be seeing you around.”

“You can count on it,” Alastair answers before exiting the room. He almost runs into a man who’s coming the opposite direction down the hall, and as he murmurs an apology, he notices that the man has on the badge for police chief—this must be Turner.

Alastair has done his homework and knows that there is some corruption in the Morada PD in favor of the Reapers. Rumor has it, this man is the source of it. Alastair files the man’s face away with the information—might be useful, later.

For now, he exits the building and drives away from the police station. He can’t interfere with an ATF investigation, so he won’t be calling this Agent Crowley, but maybe if he snoops around, he’ll be able to get some case files, see where they could use some help. After all, if the ATF puts the Reapers away, that means Dean will be out of reach of Cas Novak.

And that’s for the best, really. For both Alastair’s and Dean’s interests.

* * *

“Who the hell was _that?_ ” Rufus demands as he walks into Victor’s office.

There’ve been too many strangers coming in and out of this police department in the past couple o’ days. Granted, the only one that matters is Crowley and there’s only been the one other guy, but Morada isn’t a big place; Rufus is used to seeing the same set of faces. Two people in the span of three days is already plenty, and it doesn’t help that this last guy only spoke with Victor and didn’t even pause to introduce himself to Rufus.

“He’s an FBI agent, here to work in conjunction with the ATF on their case,” Victor answers placidly. “Are you gonna run off and tell your masters now?”

Rufus grinds his teeth at the boy’s tone. “Now, look here. _No one_ is the boss of me, you understand that? I only happen to know what the lesser of two evils is. I just hope you can open your eyes before it’s too goddamn late.”

Having said his piece, he storms back out of the deputy chief’s office and back toward his own office. What on earth is the _FBI_ doing here? They usually don’t come around until a crime has already been committed and reported.

Well. Rufus will get to the bottom of whatever’s going on eventually. It always comes back to him, somehow.

* * *

Abaddon picks up on the second ring—she must have been waiting for this call. And that… well, it’s at least a _little_ bit Cecily’s fault, but she couldn’t have known that the reports she had to file were gonna need to be rewritten to include a new section that the higher-ups just decided they wanted to add to the protocol. It’s almost four thirty now, and Abaddon called in the morning—shit, of _course_ she’s been waiting for this call.

So the first thing out of Cecily’s mouth is, “Hi! Sorry about the wait.”

“That’s fine. I assume you have results?”

“Oh—yes,” Cecily says, glancing over at the sticky note she copied the name down on. “The legal consultant for Crowley’s case is a guy named Sam Winchester. I uh, took the liberty of trying to access the case files, but everything’s sealed. Crowley’s eyes only, I guess.”

“That’s all right. I’ve already got what I needed. Just—keep an eye on that case.”

“You got it,” Cecily replies and hangs up, relieved.

Abaddon hasn’t ever really given her a hard time before, but that’s only because Cecily has been cooperative. She doesn’t wanna know what’ll happen if she ever accidentally offends her—and it would have to be accidental, because Cecily would never, ever knowingly offend the biker queen who’s known for tearing apart her enemies. Sometimes literally.

“Who were you just talking to?”

The voice comes from behind her, startling her, and she jumps in her seat before twisting around to see Crowley, leaning against the doorjamb with his hands in his pockets.

“God, you scared me,” she says, pressing a hand to her chest.

Crowley smiles, unrepentant. “That I did. I believe I also asked you a question.”

“Oh, right. I’m fine, how are you?” Cecily jokes, and gets another smile.

“I’m doing well, myself. But in all seriousness, who were you just talking to?”

“A friend.”

“Ah. Which friend, might I ask?” he presses, stepping fully into the room.

The repeated questioning is getting a little worrisome, so Cecily says, “It’s none of your business.”

“She wouldn’t happen to lead an MC, would she?” Crowley asks next, and shit, how does he _know?_

Caught off guard, she doesn’t know what to say—consorting with the leader of an MC, handing over the information that she’s been handing over, is against regulation, way more than enough to get her ass fired, and Crowley may not have any evidence, except that he totally might, seeing as he found out about it without ever even _hinting_ that he might know more than he let on.

“Don’t worry; I won’t tell anyone,” he says at last, and Cecily feels a relieved breath whoosh from her lungs. Shit, that was terrifying. “What did she want to know?”

“No, wait. Crowley, how did you even—”

“I’m Crowley,” he says, as though that’s enough explanation on its own. “I make it my business to find out all the things that people don’t want found out.” With another smile, he says, “Now, what did Abaddon want to know?”

“You promise not to tell, then,” Cecily says, because again, she can get _fired_ for this if anyone finds out. Well, anyone _else_.

“I promise,” Crowley says solemnly.

“She just wanted to know who you picked as your legal counsel.”

“Ah,” Crowley says, thoughtful. “Well, now that that’s out of the way, I can ask whether or not you’re free to grab dinner tonight. My treat.”

“Is _that_ why you dropped by?”

“Why else?” Crowley responds easily.

“Um, I get off at five thirty, so… if you don’t mind waiting an hour, then yes, I’m free,” Cecily says.

“Perfect. I’ll see you then, darling.”

He backs out of the room and walks away, and Cecily closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. It’s gonna be okay. Crowley’s not gonna tell anyone—everything’s gonna be _fine_.

* * *

Cas has only managed to sneak two steps down the hallway when Dean appears at the end of it. At the sight of Cas on his feet, he scowls and says, “The hell do you think you’re going?”

“I’ve been shot before, Dean. I’ll live,” Cas says, annoyed. In fact, he’s getting so good at being shot that it doesn’t even _hurt_ anymore.

Except that that’s probably just the painkillers doing their thing. Cas doesn’t think the last dose Dean gave him has worn off just yet. Yeah, that’s probably it.

“Okay well, out of the three people in this house, I’m the only one who’s got the degree to decide whether or not you’re allowed to go places, so get back in that room, or I’ll make you.”

Cas resists the urge to pout—god, he’s not _three years old_ anymore. “It’s Friday. I promised Amelia I’d pick Claire up from her ballet lesson today, because Amelia’s gotta go to a parent-teacher conference deal at the elementary school.”

“What, and you think we’d let you _drive_ anywhere like this?” Dean says, brows climbing off his forehead. He comes over to Cas, pushing him back toward the guest room. “No, you’re getting right back in bed.”

“Dean—” Cas tries to protest.

“You lost a lot of blood, and you’re on pain meds. You’re in _no_ condition to be operating any sort of machinery right now.”

Cas huffs indignantly as Dean pushes him down onto the bed. Luce appears in the doorway, and Cas says, “C’mon, Luce, say something.”

Luce shrugs. “Doctor’s orders. I can’t say shit.”

“Traitor,” Cas complains—Luce was the one who got him shot in the first place, so he should be on Cas’s side by default, the asshole.

“I’ll go get Claire, okay? Just tell me where to go,” Dean says.

“Are you serious?” Cas says.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Luce already said he’s not allowed to go anywhere, but it’s not like _I’m_ on babysitting duty,” Dean responds.

Cas deliberately _doesn’t_ point out how Dean decided to skip work and just hang around at home today, ostensibly because Cas is here, but it’s a close thing. “Okay, fine. I don’t know the address; just have Luce look it up for you.”

“On it,” Luce says, pulling out his phone.

Dean starts turning away then, but Cas remembers that there’s a reason why it had to be him and not one of the other guys—Jimmy grew up with the rest of them, so of course he taught Claire never to let a stranger pick her up. And by stranger, he meant anyone who wasn’t him, Amelia, Cas, or Naomi. Sometimes—but rarely—Jules.

“Dean, wait,” Cas says, lifting his hands to work a thick ring off his left middle finger—the RE of REAP.

“What?”

Cas holds out the ring. “Take this.”

“What the—why?” Dean says, staring down at it. It occurs to Cas that Dean hasn’t seen these rings in forever. Shit, he probably never even noticed that they were on Cas’s hand, now.

“So Claire’ll know that I sent you.”

“Oh,” Dean says. He accepts the ring hesitantly, holding it between two fingers for a moment before slipping it into his pocket. “Should I bring her back here?”

“Yeah. No one’s gonna be at home right now,” Cas replies.

“‘Kay, I’ll be back soon, then.”

Dean and Luce exit the room, and Cas resigns him to a quiet evening, at least for the next half hour or so. At least when Claire gets here, he’ll have someone to talk to who _won’t_ act like he’s gonna faint as soon as he’s vertical.

* * *

It’s surprisingly slow for a Friday evening. Sure, it’s only about seven o’clock, or well—it’s getting close to seven thirty, but still—people usually get off work early on Fridays and come to the bar after dinner. Seven or eight is just around the time when they should be flocking in.

“I’ll have whatever you’ve got on tap,” a familiar voice says, and Jo forces the instinctive smile off her face before turning around.

“Why hello there, Deputy. What brings you here tonight?” she asks

“Not gonna lie—I didn’t come here to see _you_ ,” Victor says, grinning.

“How dare you come out here for a drink without thinking of me,” Jo says, folding her arms across her chest. “Y’know, we reserve the right to not serve customers.”

“Hello, officer,” Mom says from behind Jo before Victor can respond. She plunks a mug down and says, smirking, “On the house. Since my bartender is too busy _flirting_ to work.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Jo protests, but her mom’s already moving down the bar to help another person who just came in, so Jo rolls her eyes and turns her attention back to the man sitting in front of her. “Really, though. What’re you doing here, out of uniform and everything?”

“What, a guy can’t just go out for the night?” Victor says.

“Hey, if that’s all you’re doing, that’s all you gotta say,” Jo says. “I never said you _couldn’t_ just be out having a drink by yourself.”

Victor chuckles and drinks from the mug before saying, “Actually, I came here because Dean said he’d be here tonight. Thought it’d be nice to catch up. I caught him at the hospital on Wednesday, but he didn’t really have time to talk.”

“Oh no, how _dare_ you infringe on my time with Dean,” Jo says, sending him a look of mock-outrage.

“What, you got a thing for him? And here I thought you were flirting with me,” Victor says.

“Pfft. If I were really trying to flirt with you, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“All right, Jo, customers need serving,” Mom says, tapping Jo’s shoulder as she bustles past to the other end of the bar.

“Go ahead,” Victor says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jo flashes a quick smile at him before moving closer to her mom, where she’s taking a customer’s order. Someone else approaches the bar, and Jo almost doesn’t recognize him at first, except—those eyes, and that mutt hair—

“ _Sam?_ ”

“Jo!” Sam says, breaking into a wide smile.

“Holy crap, how’re you doing? Mom, look who’s here!”

“I’m doing pretty good,” Sam says as he reaches the bar, and then Mom’s hand shoots out, grabbing his arm and tugging him into an awkward sort of quasi-hug over the bar.

“It’s been way too long since you came ‘round,” Mom says, smiling warmly at him. “Order whatever you like; it’s on the house.”

“Oh Ellen, don’t—”

“ _Hey_ ,” Mom says sharply. “What’s mine is yours, so don’t you worry about it.”

Sam just smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, and Mom gets back to work.

“So—” Jo starts, but a whole gaggle of people comes in then, and yeah, Mom’s gonna need some help. “Uh, Victor’s down the bar a ways, if you wanna sit with him and wait for Dean—I assume that’s why you’re here too.”

“Yeah,” Sam admits, ducking his head a little. Then he seems to notice the group of people heading toward the bar, so he says, “I’ll let you get to work. Just come by later, yeah?”

“Count on it,” Jo answers cheerfully.

* * *

It’s just past seven when Gordon rolls into the huge driveway in front of Alpha’s place. Andrea’s there to let him in, and she says that Alpha, Benny, and Luther are upstairs already, waiting for him. She doesn’t know what happened, but she does know that Alpha isn’t happy about it, so he’d better get his ass up there pronto.

Gordon hurries up the stairs and up to what Alpha uses as a sort of conference room. It’s wide, spacious, could probably fit a table big enough to seat like thirty people, but Alpha just has a long, wooden table that seats eight.

It’s quiet when he walks into the room, and he sits down across from Luther, leaving a vacant spot between himself and the end of the table because that is Eli’s seat. Come to think of it, Luther’s in the wrong chair—Boris usually sits to next to Benny. But that’s Luther—never cared much for the rules.

“Thank you for joining me on such short notice,” Alpha says quietly.

“Yeah, no problem. What’s going on?” Gordon asks.

“Quentin is dead,” Alpha says.

Gordon doesn’t think he believes it. Why the hell would anyone go after Quentin right now?

“I got the call only a few minutes before I called you in,” Alpha goes on. “Sorento didn’t see it happen, but he was close enough to hear it. The killer was William Harvelle.”

Harvelle. The name sounds familiar, but Gordon can’t quite place it—

“Famine,” Alpha clarifies, and _oh_. Him Gordon remembers.

“It was retaliation,” Benny says. “It’s done, and we oughta just let it go.”

“Let it _go?_ ” Luther says. “One of our people is _dead_ —”

“Yeah, ‘cause o’ _you!_ ” Benny says, rounding on Luther. “If you’d just held your temper when you were supposed to, none o’ this woulda happened!”

“We can’t just let it go,” Alpha says calmly, eyeing Luther when it looks like he’s going to speak up again, probably to say something to the effect of _I told you so_ to Benny. Wisely, he holds his tongue.

“Well we can’t just kill one o’ them in return,” Benny says. “We started it, so they get to end it. That’s how it works.”

“I don’t intend to kill anyone, but I do believe we need to make it clear that they took this too far,” Alpha says. “That requires a specific kind of statement.”

“What are you thinking?” Gordon asks. “Paralysis? Severed limb?”

“Kidnapping,” Alpha responds.

That… would actually work, probably.

“Obviously, we won’t be cooperating with the Reapers anytime in the near future,” Alpha says. “If we’d like to continue with our plans of expansion into Lodi, we can’t count on the Reapers to help us—on the contrary, they very well may try to foil our attempts to get in. If we have a hostage, they will think twice before moving on us.”

“Who are we kidnapping, then?” Gordon asks.

“I already have a candidate in mind,” Alpha answers. “Dean Winchester.”

Gordon frowns. “Winchester—as in—John and Mary Winchester?”

“Their son, yes,” Alpha says.

“But I thought their sons got out of the life. No one ever heard from them again, right?”

“Or so we thought,” Benny says. “Luther shot Cas last night, and Boris followed them straight to Dean Winchester’s house.”

“Huh. But he’s—”

“Not part of the club,” Alpha finishes. “In my opinion, that’s better. With the police in Morada searching for him, the Reapers will have to be exceptionally careful about everything that they do. It’ll be one more measure to keep them from standing in our way.”

“And he’s gotta be important to the club, since they took their VP there when he was hurt,” Luther says.

Alpha’s phone rings then, and he places it on the table before answering it with the speakerphone turned on, “Hello, Boris.”

“Uh, Dean just left the house. You want us to follow?”

“Mm, no,” Alpha responds. “Stay where you are. I’m sure he’ll be home eventually.”

“Got it. And yeah, he’s definitely coming back. Cas is still there, and there’s one Reaper inside with him.”

“Be ready when he returns. You’re going to take him,” Alpha says.

There’s a pause, and then Boris says, “Take? What do you mean?”

“Bring him to Oakland. If you can persuade him, with or without firearms, do so. If not, bind him.”

“So you want him alive.”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Boris says, and there’s a weighty silence on the other line—Boris and Eli have probably already figured out why they’ve been told to act. “We’ll keep you posted.”

“Thank you,” Alpha says, and hangs up the phone.

Gordon leans back in his chair and sighs.

Shit, Quentin is _dead_.

Gordon usually doesn’t handle anything to do with other clubs, focused on keeping business up and running at home. It’s easy to keep people on their toes when both twins are out there doing “public relations” sorts of things, anyway. Boris and Gordon have been part of the gang for longer than the twins have, so ideally they’d be handling relations with other clubs, but honestly, Boris is heaps better with diplomacy than Gordon is. Gordon doesn’t have the—the temperament for it.

Besides, the underlings here at home need a firm hand to keep them in line, and that’s what Gordon does best, apparently.

Hearing that Quentin’s dead almost makes him want to participate in whatever’s coming up next, though. He sure as hell doesn’t want to sit around and watch while everyone else handles this shit.

“Benny,” Alpha says, “give Dick Roman a call and set up a formal meeting. We have officially let go of all ties with the Reapers; it’ll be good to have the Leviathans’ support right now.”

Benny nods. “Roger that.”

“Is there anything you want me to do?” Gordon asks.

Alpha shakes his head. “You’re already doing all that I need from you. Thank you, for that.”

Gordon accepts the praise with a small nod. He knows that he’s good at what he does, and that’s why he’s doing it.

“Go on, then,” Alpha says. “If you’re needed, I’ll call.”

Gordon gets out of his seat then, leading the way out of the room. Luther and Benny follow him out, and Luther hurries for the stairs. That Kate keeps him on a tight leash, whenever she can.

A heavy hand lands on Gordon’s shoulder before he’s gone far, and then Benny’s asking, “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Gordon says, half-turning to face him. “I don’t know. It just—feels like I’m never on the front lines anymore.”

“You’re always on the front line,” Benny points out. “You keep us running.”

“I guess,” Gordon responds. “Just let me know if there’s anything—” he stops himself there, shaking his head. “But of course, you’d have done that anyway.”

“Yeah,” Benny says, smiling. “Go on home, get some rest.”

“I’ll see you,” Gordon says.

* * *

Bobby’s leaning against the bar, nursing a glass of Johnnie Walker, when the door to the clubhouse swings open. Limey and Aggie look up from where they’re sitting on either side of Bobby. Raph and Sharpie keep on with their game of pool, but Ghoul straightens up too, because Jules and Mike have just walked inside.

“Quentin’s dead,” Mike announces as he reaches the bar. Gabe, Bacon, and Alf trail him in—they must have closed down the shop, then. “It was clean, quiet, painless.”

That’s Bill for ya, Bobby thinks, draining the rest of his glass and pouring another. Mike grabs an empty one and holds it out for Bobby to fill.

“Good,” Limey says, quiet and firm.

Yeah, Bobby never doubted for a second that Limey would come running back to the club at the first sign of discomfort for Cas. He just hadn’t expected it to happen so _soon_. Poor Rachel. And those poor kids. They might as well not _have_ a father.

That’s why Bobby chose never to have kids, really.

“If the ‘Nines are smart, they’ll take that as it is,” Jules says. “But I doubt that’s gonna happen, so I want all of you to be extra careful for the next few weeks. Keep an eye out for the ‘Nines; make sure they don’t show up around town.”

A general murmur of assent goes around the room, and Bobby tips his glass back for a sip. Well, looks like justice has been served—for now. But Bobby figures Jules is right: this shitstorm hasn’t even started for real, yet.

Vigilance is the key, he guesses.

“Oh, and Bela called, wanted to confirm that we’re still making the drop-off tomorrow,” Jules says. After a pause, he says, “I don’t have to call church for this, do I?”

“Nah, we’re all in the know,” Gabe says, before casting a look in the prospects’ direction and adding, “well, almost.”

“Almost indeed,” Jules says, looking over at Bacon and Alf as well. But he doesn’t mention patching either of them in before turning to Mike. “You’re taking the lead on this drop-off, since your brother’s still on Cas watch.”

“How _is_ Cas, anyway?” Bobby asks. He hasn’t heard anything since Limey came back from the house this morning.

“Should be fine,” Mike answers. “Luce texted earlier saying that he was grumpy because he wanted to go pick up Claire from ballet lessons. Apparently Dean went to get her instead.”

Bobby almost spits out his drink. It’s one thing for Dean to be letting Cas stay at his house. It’s entirely another for him to be _running errands_ for Cas. At this point, Bobby doesn’t know even which boy he’s more worried about. Hell, he’s worried about them _both_. Why can’t they just leave each other be?

“Anyway,” Mike says, looking over at Jules, “yeah, that sounds good. Usual time?”

Jules nods. “Go ahead and take Alf and Limey with you. It’ll be good to let Limey stretch his legs, get back into the swing o’ things.”

“Thanks, Jules,” Limey says.

Bobby tips back the rest of this drink and decides to leave it at that, because he’s pleasantly buzzed, at the moment. Randomly, his eyes land on Ghoul, across the room, scowling at the floor. The hell’s the matter with _him?_

Bobby has only spoken to the boy once, and it was earlier today, when they were all lounging around, idle. Ghoul had asked him a couple questions about the Winchesters, which had been—strange. No one’s asked him about John in… well, years. But it makes sense that the kid might be interested, seeing as he wasn’t around to see any of it happen.

And now he’s thinking about Mary and about John again, and about how Dean and Sam aren’t with him, and shit, screw “pleasantly buzzed”—he needs another drink, pronto.

* * *

When Dean Winchester’s car pulls up on the driveway, Boris and Eli are ready, faces wrapped up so potential witnesses can’t describe their faces to the police. They get out of the van and come sprinting across the street just as Dean closes his car door—it doesn’t give him enough time to get back inside, nor does it allow him to get all the way to the front door of his house, either. That plus his moment of indecision is enough for Boris to catch his arm and slam him front-first against the door of the car.

“Ow—fuck!” Dean barks, throwing his head back, which—motherfucking _ow!_

Boris just counts his lucky stars that he’s kind of a lot shorter than Dean, which means he’s only gonna have a lump on his forehead tomorrow, instead of a broken nose. He stumbles back, of course, but there’s a loud, girly squeal, and Boris is already wondering how the fuck he got a concussion from _that_ tiny bit of impact when he realizes that the little girl screams have just gone muffled but are still very much present because there’s an _actual_ little girl, here.

And Eli’s got one hand clamped around her mouth, and the other—shit, he’s holding a gun to her head with the other. What the _fuck_ —

“Jesus,” Dean gets out, which means he’s pretty much on the same page as Boris.

Luce and Cas come banging out the front door of Dean’s house then, and Boris remembers himself, springing into action. Eli’s already got his gun out, so Boris may as well show his as well, grabbing one of Dean’s arms and pressing the gun to his neck before he can fight back. Dean holds still then, but his eyes are still on the little girl, which—where the fuck did Dean get a _little girl_ from?

Nowhere in this equation was there supposed to be a _small female child_.

“If you come one step closer, we’ll kill them,” Boris says when it looks like Cas is gonna step forward.

He’s bluffing, but they don’t know that, and sure enough, they don’t move an inch.

“If you want to see them alive again, VP, you’re gonna convince Jules to look the other way while we’re in Lodi,” Boris says confidently, stepping back to get around Dean’s car and toward the van, pulling Dean with him all the way. “And hey, if you convince Jules to work with us, maybe we’ll even forget about the unjust retaliation that Bill Harvelle just exacted on Quentin.”

“If you touch either of them, I’ll kill you both,” Cas threatens, low and menacing. “I’ll do it slow, make you wish you’d never been born.”

“That’s fine,” Eli says, speaking up now.

When Boris glances back, he notes that the girl is tied up and thrown in the trunk of the van already, and Eli’s still got a gun trained on her. Spinning Dean around so that he can see what’s at stake if he tries to fight, Boris grabs some rope and gets to work binding Dean up nice and tight.

“But even if you ripped us apart, it wouldn’t bring either of them back, would it? How would you explain this little girl’s death to her daddy, huh? To your brother?” Eli says, and whoa, how did he put _that_ together? Boris knew that Cas had a brother, but he didn’t know that he had a niece.

Cas doesn’t answer that, and Boris shoves a trussed up Dean into the trunk. Eli has still got his gun on Claire, so Boris heads over to the front of the van and climbs in. He shuts the door, starts the engine, and rolls his window down. “Bring our proposition to Jules and let him stew on it for a while,” he says, pulling Cas’s attention back to him. “Wouldn’t want him to make any hasty decisions and regret them later, anyway. Until then…”

Eli slams the trunk door shut and races around to the side of the van, and as soon as he’s in, Boris stomps on the gas. He already hears gunfire behind him, bullets pelting the side and rear of the van. This is gonna be one hell of a bumpy ride.

* * *

As soon as the van is in motion, Cas fires two shots at it, but god, that was just—waste of ammunition. Cas catches Luce going for his bike, so he shoves him out of the way and climbs on, revving the motor before speeding off down the street, Luce shouting protests after him.

Cas catches up to the van pretty quickly, because there’s really only one quick way out of the city that leads directly to Oakland.

The back window shatters when Cas gets too close, and he swerves to avoid getting a face full of glass before righting the bike and returning fire. One of the ‘Nines is hanging out the back of the van, presumably having put down the back row of seats and climbed over them—or maybe they were removed entirely, seeing as this was fucking _planned_.

How did no one fucking _notice?_

Cas puts on some speed to get closer, because shit, if he can just get up alongside the van, maybe he can shoot the driver in the head. He’ll take their chances in a car crash rather than lose them to these yahoos. Shit, how did things even come to this?

The bike sways a little, and Dean’s voice sounds in Cas’s head amidst the gunfire that he’s taking from up front, telling him that yeah, Dean told him so, Dean said that he wasn’t fit to operate machinery. But hell, here he is, and he isn’t dead yet. That should be enough to shut that son of a bitch up.

Cas lifts his gun to shoot again, knowing that he’s only got maybe two shots left in the clip, but suddenly his bike wobbles dangerously and skids to the side, and he’s got no clue where his shots went because he’s rolling off to his right, thanking his lucky stars that he went to the right and not to the left—there isn’t a lot of traffic right now, but Cas knows they passed a couple o’ cars.

He manages to right himself, ears ringing and head spinning, but when he takes aim, the van is already too far away, and he lurches forward, suddenly out of breath, and has to catch himself on shaky arms. The ache in his shoulder begins to make itself known, and he looks over at Luce’s bike. It’s spun around a couple times, laying on its side in the dirt, and from here Cas can see a bullet hole in the front tire.

Son of a _bitch_ , that was a lucky shot.

Reaching into his pocket, he finds his cell phone—thank god he decided to keep it in his pocket despite being stuck in bed all day—and calls Jules, because he’ll know what to do.

The line connects almost immediately, and Jules says, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I—”

“Luce has already told me what happened—or as much as he knows. Did you find them?” Jules asks.

“Yeah. Look, I uh, I think I mighta shot one of them, but I was already going down, so I’m not sure. The van got away. They fucking hit one of the tires on Luce’s bike—can you _believe_ that shit?” Cas says.

He coughs a little then, letting himself fall over onto his side with a wince because hitting the ground and rolling like that is already fucking painful when he’s a hundred percent. When he’s still on the mend, it’s a whole different story.

“Cas, talk to me,” Jules says.

“I think uh,” Cas says, reaching up with his left hand to press against his shoulder, “yeah, I think I reopened the wound. It doesn’t hurt, though.”

That last part is maybe a bit of a lie—it’s totally a lie—but if he makes a fuss about being in pain, there’s no way in hell they’re gonna let him be in on this, and he _needs_ to be in on this.

“Where are you?” Jules asks next.

“I’m on the 99. Send someone to get me—Luce’s bike is busted. The front tire—”

“Yes, you told me,” Jules says. “I’m sending Limey right now. Gabe is already picking Luce up from Dean’s house. Just remain calm. We’ll find a solution.”

“Well, it’d better be fucking good, because that was Jimmy’s little girl they just took, Jules,” Cas says, his voice breaking a little despite himself. “What the fuck am I supposed to tell him?”

“Just calm down,” Jules insists. “We’ll talk when you get back, all right?”

“Does—does Naomi know?” Cas asks, because shit, Mom will flip a bitch if she hears about this.

“I haven’t told her, but she’s—coming this way right now. I’ll speak with you when you’re back,” Jules says quickly.

“Yeah,” Cas says, and then he hears the dial tone because Jules has hung up.

Cas shoves his phone back into his pocket and shuts his eyes, grimacing and doing his best to ignore the pain. A few cars go by, and then a pair of footsteps is coming his way. No—it’s way too early for it to be Limey, damn it.

“Sir, are you—are you okay?” a man asks.

“Get the fuck away from me,” Cas groans, lifting his head. His vision is a little blurred, so he blinks a few times to clear it up, and the guy is staying a safe distance away, wary but unwilling to leave.

“Do you—I mean, did you get hit? Where’s your helmet? Should I call the police?”

“Go. _Away_ ,” Cas bites out. “Someone’s already coming to get me. Just get the fuck _out_ of here.”

“Okay, Jesus, I’m _going_ ,” the man says, and thank fucking _god_ , he’s walking away, now. Cas sees him get into his car, which is parked on the shoulder a ways up the road, emergency lights blinking. His car lurches into motion, and Cas lets his head hang again, closing his eyes and breathing with the pain.

He hopes to hell Dean and Claire are gonna make it out of this. He doesn’t have any idea what he’ll tell Jimmy and Amelia if Claire isn’t okay, and Dean…

Fuck. No matter what issues they’ve still got between them, Cas has never, _ever_ wanted Dean to be dead, and if he dies now, it’ll be all Cas’s fault. God, Cas doesn’t know what he’ll do with himself.

Please, he prays silently, even though he hasn’t prayed since he was four years old and still believed in angels, _please_ let them live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a sidenote: if you don't actually watch SoA and you're wondering about the RE AP rings, they're totally based on the pair of rings in [this picture here](http://skyethelimit.files.wordpress.com/2011/07/sonsofanarchy-jax1434f.jpg). (Also yeah enjoy that man's face like whoa hot damn do you see why I couldn't stop watching)


	6. Someday Never Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reapers divert their attention between rescuing Dean and Claire and untangling the shifting alliances between Oakland, Lodi, and Morada. Sam and Victor find out that Dean is missing and involve Ellen to get information from the Reapers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to stop procrastinating, ahem. But it's 11:20pm PST so THERE.

Limey is climbing up into one of the company pickups as Naomi comes out of the office adjoining the garage. Frowning, she hurries over to stop him—the garage is closed down for the day, so where does he think he’s going?

Before she can even ask, he says, “I don’t have time to talk, Naomi—I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

Frowning, Naomi lets him take the pickup and heads over toward the clubhouse, because Jules is here, and he’s bound to have answers.

“—when you get back, all right?” Naomi hears as she enters the clubhouse, because everyone within is silent, all eyes on Jules.

The whole room seems to be on edge, which is never a good sign.

“I haven’t told her, but she’s—” Jules says, but then he looks up and catches Naomi’s eye, so he finishes, “—coming this way right now. I’ll speak with you when you’re back.”

He snaps his phone shut quickly, and Naomi looks at him expectantly. “What is it? What haven’t you told me?” she demands.

Jules looks around the room, and Naomi follows his gaze, taking stock of the men who are present. Bobby and Aggie are seated on a couch at the side of the room, and the Nomads and prospects are lounging around the bar. Mike is standing behind the bar, hands braced on the edge, practiced ease in the gesture, but Naomi can see his knuckles going white. Jules is right in the middle, on his feet, which means he may have been pacing.

There aren’t many things distressing enough to have Jules pacing, and Naomi fights down the instinctive panic that grips her.

Finally, he says, “The ‘Nines have Claire.”

Naomi repeats that line in her head several times, because it’s so outlandish that it can’t _possibly_ be fucking true, can it? No one in the room is speaking, and she realizes that all attention has shifted to her, but she still doesn’t think she can wrap her head around—how on earth would they have even found her? Today is Friday, so she had a ballet lesson earlier this evening, but hardly any of the Reapers even know that.

“What?” she finally says, intelligently, and Jules sighs.

“Don’t worry. We’re going to find her.”

“Are you _serious?_ ” Naomi says, and she feels it now, anger and terror twisting together in her chest, coalescing into barely coherent rage. “That’s my _granddaughter_ that they’ve got!”

“Yes, I know,” Jules says steadily, and it’s _infuriating_ that he can still be calm at a time like this.

“How?” Naomi asks next. “How the fuck did they get Claire?”

“I don’t have all the details yet,” Jules answers. “We heard less than five minutes ago from Luce—” and shit, if the news came from Luce, then something had to have happened to _Cas_ , because Luce was tasked with keeping Cas safe, “—that the ‘Nines took Dean and Claire from the house, and that Cas took his bike to go after them.”

“Who were you just talking to, then? Cas?”

“Yes,” Jules replies, and thank god, at least that means Cas is alive.

“This was because of the retaliation, wasn’t it,” Naomi says flatly, not bothering to make it a question because she already knows that she’s right. Jules had ordered retaliation against the ‘Nines after they shot Cas, and of course Naomi had approved, but—but this is the last thing she wanted.

What the fuck do the ‘Nines even think they’re doing, kidnapping a _child?_

But not everyone operates with the same morals, and Naomi knows hardly anything about that gang. For all she knows, kidnapping children could be their MO. God, those sick fucks—

“Naomi,” Jules says, “we’re going to church as soon as Luce and Cas get back, since everyone’s here already. Could you go to Amelia? This would be better to do face to face.”

That just reminds Naomi that her other son is in the hospital, and Christ, what did she ever do to deserve this? One son was hit by a car, the other got shot in the shoulder, and now her granddaughter has been taken from her. _Why?_

“I’ll go,” she answers, and Jules nods his approval. “You’d all better make sure that Jimmy doesn’t hear of this,” she adds, directing her words to the room at large, and she promptly receives a chorus of _yes, ma’am’s_ in response. She casts one last look at Jules and doesn’t know whether it’s comforting or disconcerting that he’s already started turning away, eyes calculating.

She turns and leaves the room, and as she walks over to her car, she lets out a long sigh. How the hell is she supposed to break this news to her daughter?

* * *

The kidnapper who was shooting over Dean and Claire’s heads falls to the floor of the trunk, bleeding heavily. Luce or Cas, whichever followed them out, is a damn good shot—or just lucky. Dean hopes to god that it was Luce, anyway, because nothing good can come of Cas operating any sort of machinery right now.

“I’m hit,” the man says, and the driver curses colorfully.

“He’s gonna bleed out,” Dean says, because it’s true. “I’m a doctor. If you untie me, I can save him.”

The van continues to move for a while longer, but then it slows, and after a turn, the ride gets bumpy and rough. Claire looks at Dean with wide, worried eyes, but she doesn’t say a word, and Dean doesn’t know what to tell her. He doesn’t know anything about her, except that she’s apparently Jimmy’s daughter. She’s got his eyes, maybe, but the rest of her face doesn’t resemble him at all.

The driver gets out and gets into the back with them—the back seats have been removed from this van. “Shit, man,” he says when he sees how much blood his partner is losing. Turning to Dean, he holds up his gun and says, “If you try anything, I’ll shoot you, and then the girl. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers. “Yeah, we’re clear.”

The man cuts Dean loose but keeps the gun trained on him.

“Any chance you got a first aid kit?” Dean says as he presses one hand down firmly on the wound. It’s a shot to the left shoulder— _through_ the left shoulder, Dean realizes as he slips a hand underneath the guy and feels that the blood is seeping through his clothes.

The kidnapper just glares at him, but hey, it was worth a try.

“Here, help me get his shirt off,” Dean says, and the kidnapper hesitates a moment before cursing again and putting his gun away to help.

It doesn’t take long for them to wrap up the wound in the guy’s shirt, and while it still seems to be bleeding sluggishly, Dean figures it’ll be fine. They move him up to the front seat, but as soon as Dean steps back to close the door, he feels something hard pressing into the small of his back—it must be the muzzle of the gun.

“Shut the door,” the kidnapper says. When Dean does so, the next command is, “Hands behind your back.”

Dean considers making a run for it, but he seriously doesn’t know who this guy is, doesn’t know why he and Claire have been taken. They’re on a highway, and Dean wouldn’t be able to get far. And Claire—he can’t just run away and leave the poor girl here.

So he stands still, lets his hands be bound behind his back, and doesn’t fight when the kidnapper shoves him into the back of the van again. The man gets in up front and starts the car, and Dean sits up, moving toward Claire.

But she shies away, unsure, so Dean leans against the seat backs and closes his eyes.

Dean knows pretty much nothing—he doesn’t know who has kidnapped him or why they did it, doesn’t know where they’re going, doesn’t even know whether they were planning to go after him or Claire. It would definitely make more sense if they were aiming to take Claire because she’s Jimmy’s daughter and Cas’s niece, which makes her Naomi’s granddaughter, Jules’s step-granddaughter.

Then again, they were waiting at Dean’s house, so they must have been waiting for him. They couldn’t have known that Claire would be with him, could they?

But why on earth would they want to take _Dean_ hostage, of all people? He’s got nothing to do with the club anymore—it doesn’t hurt the club at all to “lose” him when he hasn’t been one of them for years. It makes no sense, it’s irritating as hell, and Dean just wants some goddamn answers.

* * *

When the phone rings, Amelia picks up immediately.

She just got home, only to find that the lights were out and that Cas and Claire were nowhere to be seen, and it occurred to her that Cas was shot yesterday—of course he wouldn’t be driving out to pick up Claire.

“Amelia, it’s Naomi.”

That’s—good, right? Cas probably told Naomi to pick Claire up in his stead. “Naomi, hi,” Amelia says. “Is Claire with you right now?”

There’s a troubling pause, and then Naomi says, “No.” Before Amelia can ask, she continues, “Claire is—she’s been kidnapped.”

Amelia almost drops the phone.

“I’m about to drive over and get you,” Naomi says. “If you have any questions, I’ll answer then when I see you. You’re going to stay with me for the time being, but I want your car to stay home. I have some idea of what our best options are when we’re at risk, and it’s to let outsiders know as little as possible about our whereabouts.”

How is this even important at all? Amelia can’t bring herself to care, with what she’s just heard. Her baby is missing; how can Naomi be talking about it so calmly?

“Amelia, are you there?”

“Yes,” Amelia manages.

“Pack some clothes,” Naomi says. “I’m coming to pick you up—I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“All right.” Amelia sets the phone down on the counter, numb, and turns away to pack a bag.

* * *

“I apologize for calling you in like this,” Dick says. “I originally planned to hold this meeting tomorrow morning, but I got an urgent call from one of the Lafitte twins and chose to bring us together early.”

Georgie doesn’t actually know what exactly the Lafitte twins do, but he does know that they’re members from the distributors in Oakland. It’s strange that Dick would be mentioning them, especially seeing as the club is supposed to be working with the Campbell family right now. They can’t possibly split Lodi into two, can they?

“The Bloody ‘Nines have asked for an alliance with us, in hopes of expanding into Lodi,” Dick says. “I know what you’re all thinking—we only just agreed to an alliance with the Campbell family.”

“We did,” Edgar says. “And they’d be willing to pay for our protection after the expansion of their business into Morada. It’s a profitable choice for the club. What did Alpha Worthington offer that was tempting enough to change your mind?”

Dick answers, “It wasn’t the offer as much as the extension of friendship. The Campbells are not worthy allies, not in the way that the ‘Nines would be. They are a respectable gang from Oakland, and it wouldn’t take much to establish them here.” After a pause, he says, “They’re also officially against the Reapers—they lost one of their own to the infamous Famine, and they intend to take action. In fact, they could be taking action as we speak.”

“Allies against a common enemy, then—that’s what you want,” Edgar says.

“We have that with the Campbells already,” Chet points out.

“Regardless, I don’t _like_ Samuel Campbell,” Dick says.

That’s pretty much enough reason to stop the deal, as far as Georgie is concerned. Dick still holds votes, but things rarely go against what he wants. Georgie doesn’t even bother trying to come up with his own opinion anymore; he cares as much about this club as he does about his job at the bar, and he really couldn’t care less about club relations. There’s hardly any point in his presence here—he’s only allowed into the “upper echelon” meetings because he’s the old lady’s little brother.

“I already agreed to have a meet with Alpha Worthington,” Dick announces. “However, we will take a vote now, to decide whether or not we want this alliance. The ‘Nines are offering fifteen percent—”

“The Campbells will give us twenty,” Edgar breaks in.

“I know that,” Dick replies. “But the Campbells are a much smaller group than the ‘Nines, so I’m sure our profits with the ‘Nines will be comparable to whatever we get from them.”

“All right, then,” Edgar says.

The vote goes, as expected, unanimously in favor of allying with the ‘Nines, and Dick decrees that Edgar, Mully, and Georgie accompany him on the ride to Oakland tomorrow morning. Georgie accepts the orders and backs off to go home.

* * *

Edgar stays in the room with Dick and watches the others exit the room. He has some questions regarding the sincerity of Alpha Worthington’s offer that wouldn’t have been good to bring up in front of the others.

But Dick’s phone rings, almost as if on cue, interrupting Edgar before he can even start to ask.

“It’s Samuel,” Dick says, glancing over at Edgar. He holds up a finger, warning Edgar to remain silent, and accepts the call on speaker phone. “Samuel,” he says, “I wasn’t expecting a call from you.”

“I know you weren’t,” Samuel answers. “I called because I have a question for you.”

“Ask away.”

“There are people tailing my grandnephew, in Lodi. Do you know anything about it?”

Dick looks over at Edgar, who shakes his head to answer the unasked question. Edgar doesn’t ride as often as he used to, busy with his day job in the city council. It’s bad for his public image to be seen with the MC on a regular basis, so it’s been a long time since he was out in the streets with them. He gets updates from Joe and Mully and Chet on a regular basis, but it’s not the same as being out there, seeing with his own eyes.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Dick says.

“Are we still safe in Lodi, if someone can just start tailing my son like that without your notice?” Samuel asks, and he sounds angry. “How can you expect me to pay for protection when you don’t do anything?”

“You haven’t been harmed, have you?” Dick replies.

“No, but being stalked certainly could lead to being harmed,” Samuel says.

“I can look into it.”

“I want results,” Samuel says needlessly. “I want to know who is following my grandnephew around.”

“Then I’ll look into it,” Dick says, with less patience this time. “If there was nothing else, I’ll hang up now.”

“That was all,” Samuel says.

The call ends before Dick has a chance to hang up—Samuel must be very worried if he doesn’t even care about potentially offending his new business partner.

“Well,” Edgar says, “I originally had my reservations about changing alliances so quickly, but it seems Samuel isn’t so keen to work with us anyway. If the ‘Nines really did just lose someone to the Reapers, they’ll have more motivation to work with us.”

Dick nods. “I’m counting on it.”

* * *

It takes a bit of time before everyone gets into the chapel and settles in for church. Gabe did a rough job of wrapping up Cas’s shoulder—by the time he and Limey rolled into Morton-Novak, the bleeding had pretty much stopped already. Now, he’s wearing his cut over a clean shirt, seated to Jules’s left.

The resident members of the Reapers Original Charter sit around the table, and Adam pulls up a chair behind Aggie, to the left of Raph and Sharpie—they’re not members of ROC, but they’re still allowed to attend church. The prospects, however, are both still out in the bar.

“To start,” Jules says, “I’d like some confirmation as to whether or not the ‘Nines were the ones to take Claire and Dean.”

“They were,” Luce answers.

Cas nods in agreement and adds, “We need to do something about it, now.”

Limey immediately says, “It’d be better to talk to these fuckers first, see what they want.”

“Yes,” Bobby says. “If we can avoid further bloodshed, we should.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little too late for that?” Luce says.

“They _have_ my _niece_ ,” Cas says through gritted teeth.

Adam can sympathize as far as the little girl is concerned, but he doesn’t quite know how to feel about Dean Winchester being kidnapped. All he knows about the man is that he is the older son and Sam the younger—and that they’re his older half-brothers. They don’t know about him, but he knows a little about them. He tried pumping Bobby for information out of curiosity because Mom had mentioned him once or twice in the past, always in conjunction with Dad—and only when she was drunk—so Adam had figured that he’d know more about Dad than anyone else.

Well, _almost_ anyone else. Adam guesses that Bobby doesn’t have any idea about those letters, about the fact that John’s death was a setup, part of a deal in order to secure the safety of the club.

Then again, he doesn’t know much about these men, doesn’t know just how far they’d be willing to go to protect this club. He’s heard about Jules being coldhearted, but Bobby doesn’t seem that way. In any case, even if Bobby _can_ be coldhearted, Adam gets the sense that he cared a lot about John Winchester and his sons.

He wonders what the old man would think if he knew that John Winchester’s bastard child was sitting in the chapel, halfway across the room from him.

“Remain calm, Cas,” Jules says. “Losing your head now will do us no favors.” Cas says nothing, so Jules says, “We need to decide what to do regarding the ‘Nines and their potential partnership with Leviathans MC, now that they’ve essentially declared war against us.”

“It’s not—I don’t think their intention was to start a war,” Aggie says. “We killed one of their men. This looks a lot more like a warning than anything else—they could just as easily have killed Claire.”

The tension in the room thickens at the suggestion, and Adam thinks he sees Cas actually shudder.

“Whether or not it was their intention, we’re at war,” Cas says. “Whatever happens between clubs, you do _not_ bring children into it. Ever. They crossed a line, and they’re going to pay for it.”

After a brief silence, Mike says, “Well, we have that meet with the Amazons tomorrow morning, if you still think we should go through with it.” Jules nods, so Mike continues, “Luce and I could tell Abaddon about the situation.”

“I’m certain the Amazons will hardly need informing, seeing as they sent Meg here with news of the Campbell-Leviathan alliance,” Aggie says stiffly. Then he adds, “Though I suppose the ‘Nines entering the fray may be news to them.”

“When did my daughter come by?” Luce asks, and that’s—startling. Adam hadn’t known who Meg was, but he never would have guessed that she was Luce’s kid—hell, the thought of their Sergeant-at-Arms having a kid of his own is beyond strange. The fact that said kid is part of an all-female MC is even stranger.

“She dropped by last night,” Gabe says. “We were all out running interference—she talked to Naomi.”

“Mm,” Luce grunts.

“All right, we need to lay out our options,” Mike says. “We could ask for the Amazons to support us at the meet tomorrow. What else?”

“No, let’s tackle these one at a time,” Bobby says before anyone can suggest anything else. “I’m against teaming up with the Amazons. They may be friendly with us, but if we want to partner up with them, they’ll likely bring the Demons in. The Demons are gonna want to take Lodi, and if they’re successful, then the Campbells will try to bring their business south to Morada.”

“We could just tell them not to tell the Demons about this,” Gabe tries.

“Nah, that won’t fly,” Luce says. “Abaddon is no closer to us than she is to Azazel.”

“But your daughter is one of them," Adam says, and all heads turn his way. “Shouldn’t that make them a little more inclined to work with us?”

“Meg is my daughter, but Lilith’s daughter is also a member of the Amazons,” Luce answers.

“Lilith co-leads the Demons with Azazel,” Limey explains helpfully.

“All right, that’s one idea,” Jules says. “Since it’s undoubtedly hanging over our heads, I’m going to get this one out of the way: we could make nice with the ‘Nines when they inevitably bring forth their terms. Before you reject this immediately, remember—we can save revenge for a time after Claire has been safely recovered.”

“What, so work with them until they let us have Claire back, and _then_ go to war? I don’t think that’s wise,” Aggie says.

“Working with the ‘Nines is not good for us, hostage situation aside,” Bobby says. “They’ll also be aiming at taking Lodi for themselves, which still leaves us with the problem of a displaced Campbell family that’ll set its sights on Morada as a new market for drugs.”

“I don’t give a fuck what we do about the ‘Nines, guys,” Cas blurts out suddenly. “Two people’s lives are in danger, and that should be our top priority. Jimmy is lying in the hospital with no clue that his daughter has been _kidnapped_ , and we’re sitting around a table talking about fucking _politics_.”

“Let’s go to Oakland, then,” Luce says. “We might be able to find out where they’re being held, somehow. We could keep an eye on Alpha’s estate—we’re bound to find out _something_.”

Cas nods in Luce’s direction, something like gratitude on his face.

“We could do that,” Jules says. “Cas, I understand that you are anxious to go to your niece’s aid, but we need to decide on a strategy before taking action. If you truly intend to go to Oakland when this meeting is over, then it is even more crucial that we are on the same page before you go.”

“Fine,” Cas says, nodding jerkily. “So we have those two options, and they’re both bad for us because they’ll bring drugs to Morada. But what else can we do?”

“We do have a third choice,” Bobby says. “We could reveal the Leviathans’ potential partnership with the ‘Nines to the Campbell family. Anything we can do to create friction between those three parties is the best we can do for now. Campbells still have loyalty from buyers in Lodi, and they should be able to hold out if the ‘Nines try to edge them out, especially if we provide some firepower in support.”

“You want us to work with the Campbells,” Limey says flatly.

“They put Jimmy in the hospital,” Gabe says.

“It’s in our best interests to keep the Campbell family operating in Lodi so that they won’t try to come back down to Morada,” Bobby reasons.

Adam sees his point, and it probably is the best choice. But he can’t disregard the others’ protests; he wasn’t here to see Jimmy get hurt, and he has no emotional attachment to the guy, but he does know that he’s the VP’s twin brother. It makes sense for the club to be bitter toward the Campbells for this.

Bobby goes on, “If the Leviathans break their deal with the Campbells in favor of the ‘Nines, as that backstabbing Dick is wont to do, then we can hold them off.”

“We could probably bring in the Amazons for backup then,” Luce says.

“I still think they’d bring the Demons. It’s unwise to tell them anything,” Bobby says. “They already know too much as it is.”

“Well. I’m for cooperating with the Campbells,” Jules says decisively.

Luce’s eyebrows shoot up. “Even after they hit one of ours like that?”

“We’ve already established that it was not their intention as a family. And even if they hoped to take us on initially, the threat to their territory should be enough for them to partner with us, to protect their interests.”

“Can we keep this short here?” Cas says. “People have been kidnapped.”

“I like what Luce suggested,” Limey says. “We send a couple guys out to Oakland, keep an eye on Alpha Worthington’s place, and see if we can find where they might be holding Claire.”

Jules nods. “Very well. You’ll have to leave your cuts behind. And it’d be best if we sent people who aren’t easily recognizable.”

“We could go,” Raph volunteers. “We’re not often in these parts.”

Jules looks between Sharpie and Adam and asks, “Are you willing?”

“Yes,” Adam says as Sharpie replies, “Of course.”

“Is anyone opposed?” Jules asks. No one speaks up, so Jules says, “It’s settled, then.”

“I’ll take them there,” Cas says.

Jules looks at him sharply. “They know what you look like.”

“The ‘Nines aren’t stupid enough to think that we wouldn’t try to find the people they took from us,” Cas says. “It won’t matter if I’m recognized—I _have_ to go.”

“I’ll come with,” Limey offers, and Cas nods in acceptance.

Jules seems slightly peeved as he asks, “Does anyone else want to go on a field trip to Oakland?”

Silence.

“It’ll be the five of you, then,” he says. “Just stay separate as soon as you get into Oakland, to keep the element of surprise on your side. Let the ‘Nines think that we only sent two men to keep a low profile.”

“Got it,” Cas says.

“Before you go, let’s vote on how to handle the situation in Lodi,” Jules says.

Cas nods quickly, but before Jules can state the terms, his phone rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket, holding a finger up for silence as he looks down at the screen. He lets it ring one more time before bringing it to his ear.

“Alpha Worthington.”

* * *

“Dean should be here by now,” Sam says, frowning.

“Yeah, I doubt he would’ve agreed to meet Jo if he had shifts tonight,” Victor says.

Jo appears right then and says, “I don’t know, maybe he forgot? Give him a call or something.”

Sam pulls out his phone doubtfully—he dropped by the house earlier today and saw Dean there. The fact that Luce Milton was there, and Cas, too, makes it even more worrying that Dean isn’t here. What if something happened?

Dean doesn’t answer, and Sam puts his phone down.

“No luck, hmm?” Victor says.

Sam shakes his head slowly and says, “I uh, I think I’m gonna go to his house and check on him.”

“I’ll go with you, then,” Victor says, getting up off his stool.

“No, that’s fine,” Sam says, because he doesn’t think Dean will appreciate Sam showing up at his house with the law in tow, especially when he’s harboring a fugitive—because that’s probably what Cas is.

“Hey, don’t turn me down. We can take my car, just in case anything’s up,” Victor says, because figures that he’d have his squad car, even if he’s not in uniform at the moment.

“Just go together,” Jo says. “And if he forgot, give him hell for it.”

Sam manages a small smile and follows Victor out of the bar—he’s pretty sure that Dean wouldn’t have just forgotten, not after the tense couple of minutes they spent sitting at the table together earlier today. No, something must have come up, and it’s killing Sam to not know what it was.

The drive over to Dean’s is quiet. Sam’s feeling a bit too on edge to make small talk, and Victor seems to understand, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes on the road.

When they pull up out front, Sam notes that Luce’s bike is gone, but Dean’s car is still here.

Maybe Cas is gone. That’d be good.

But when Sam knocks on the door, there’s no answer. He bangs on it to no avail, and finally goes to let himself in with his spare key, only to find that the door isn’t locked.

Sam glances at Victor, worried, before shoving the door open and rushing inside. “Dean?” he calls out. “Dean!”

He goes down the hall, checking in the bathroom and two bedrooms, while Victor goes in the opposite direction, to the kitchen and laundry room.

“He’s not here!” Victor shouts, coming closer to Sam.

Sam lingers in the open doorway to the guest room—Cas had been in here earlier today, and now he’s gone. The covers have been thrown back, seemingly hurriedly, and Sam steps in slowly, looking around to see if he can find any clues. Did someone take Cas by force, and if so, did they take Dean too?

“What, Sam?” Victor asks, and when Sam turns around, he sees that Victor has entered the room too and is looking at the bed warily. “Was someone staying here with Dean?”

“Uh, no,” Sam says, teetering on the verge of telling him everything. Shit, Dean’s not here. Dean’s not here, but the Impala is still here, which means he didn’t drive out of here on his own. And Dean hardly ever _walks_ places, so _where is he?_

“Sam, there’s something you’re not telling me,” Victor says, grabbing onto his shoulder. “Tell me. Now.”

“I came by earlier today and saw Dean here,” Sam says. He hesitates for just a second, because what if Dean gets into trouble with the law for hiding Cas here? But Dean’s missing, and what other choice does he have right now? It’s no use keeping Dean “safe” if he’s not even _here_. So Sam finishes, “Luce Milton and Cas Novak were here.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I didn’t see Luce, but I saw his bike. And Cas was the one in this bed,” Sam says, gesturing behind him.

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Victor demands, turning and leaving the room.

Sam hurries to follow. “I didn’t think anything like this was gonna happen!” he protests.

Victor just huffs angrily. “All right, well, did Dean tell you anything?”

“Nothing,” Sam replies. “That was why we were gonna meet up at the Roadhouse tonight—after catching up with you and Jo, Dean was gonna give me an explanation of what I walked in on today.” When Victor turns suspicious eyes on him, Sam says, “I swear to you. I don’t know anything, except that Cas was out cold when I was here.”

“Cas got shot by a rival group that I’m not familiar with,” Victor says as he steps out the front door. He pauses to wait for Sam to lock the door. “Probably from out of town, because I’ve never seen them before. If Dean is missing, our best bet is to ask the Reapers what the fuck is going on.”

Sam sighs, reluctant, and follows Victor over to the squad car. “Yeah, you’re right.”

* * *

The van that had been parked across the street from Dean’s house is gone, but Dean’s car is here—he should be home. The bike is gone as well, so maybe the Reapers have finally left, too. That can surely only be a good thing; the less time Dean spends with them, the better.

Alastair is prepared to tail Dean to wherever he plans to go next, but then he sees a patrol car pull up in front of the house, which is… worrying.

Sam gets out of the car, along with the deputy that Alastair spoke to earlier in the day, and he wonders how they know each other. Is the deputy friends with Dean as well? Is he a threat? Alastair considers it, eyes on the body of the squad car.

It’s possible, he decides. Dean chose Alastair, after all, and the deputy here is also a law enforcement officer. Perhaps Dean has a type. But it’s strange that he would be choosing the deputy when he already has Alastair—well, already _had_ Alastair. He isn’t ready to come back yet, but they’ll have each other again soon, when the obstacles between them have been removed.

That reminds Alastair of Cas Novak. No, his initial judgment was wrong. Dean can’t be interested in the deputy, not with the way he looked at Cas Novak.

It was already two days ago, but Alastair hasn’t been able to get the image out of his head, the way Dean had been completely fixated on Cas. He isn’t even sure that Dean was ever that focused on him, and it burns him to think back on it.

Cas is _nothing_. Why should he have Dean’s attention?

Then Sam and the deputy exit the house, and Alastair sits up straighter with a frown—he hadn’t expected them to emerge so soon. They start up the car and drive away in a hurry, so Alastair starts his car and follows, sensing that something is wrong.

Dean wasn’t with them. What if Dean isn’t at home? What if—what if Dean was taken away by the Reapers when they left? Oh, Alastair should have known not to let him out of his sight.

No matter. If they’ve done anything to Dean, they’ll pay.

* * *

Jules has only just answered the phone when someone bangs on the door loudly from the outside, making everyone in the room start in surprise. Luce is already on his feet, prepared for anything that might be coming toward Jules because that’s his job, when the door opens a crack, and Bacon’s face appears in the opening, looking panicked.

“A police car just pulled into the lot,” he says quickly, and Luce is dimly aware of Jules telling Alpha that he’ll have to call him back, because something has just come up. “Alf is trying to hold them off for now,” Bacon continues, “but I don’t know how long—”

“It’s all right,” Jules says, gesturing for everyone to take their seats—Luce looks around the table and sees that almost everyone else got to their feet, too. Raph even has one of his blades drawn.

Not ten seconds later, they hear Alf shouting about how he can’t just go in there, and then Deputy Henriksen pushes his way into the room, gun raised. Luce doesn’t even bat an eye at his entrance, and looking around the table, he gets a sense of satisfaction out of the fact that no one else is wearing an expression that could be considered even _close_ to surprise.

“That wasn’t very polite,” Jules says calmly, folding his long, thin fingers together on the table in front of him, the gavel resting just to the right of his clasped hands.

“So,” Henriksen says, ignoring Jules’s comment, “looks like the whole happy family is here, tonight.”

“Yes,” Jules says, “we were just about to catch up on some business.”

Luce looks back over his shoulder and sees that Henriksen’s eyes are fixed unwaveringly on Cas. That son of a bitch—of _course_ he’s after Cas. Luce’s hand itches for his gun, but Henriksen hasn’t lowered his weapon, and besides, showing a weapon right now would just get him arrested. Luce doubts that Henriksen would have come in here without backup.

“Does any of your _business_ have to do with Dean Winchester?” Henriksen asks.

Jules leans his elbows on the table, unclasping his hands to steeple his fingers together, and says, “I believe Winchester is the name of the doctor who is looking after my stepson. He no longer has any affiliation with the club, though, so your reason for coming here is beyond me.”

“Oh, really?” Henriksen says.

“Really. Shouldn’t you be searching for him at his place of work, or asking his family members?”

“Funny story, but I was just with a ‘family member’ of his, and he said that the last time he saw Dean was at his house. Two members of your _gang_ were there at the time, and they’re sitting at this table, right now,” the deputy says.

Luce schools his expression to make sure that he looks disinterested, but it’s infuriating to realize that Dean told Sam about them. Why the _fuck_ would he think that that was okay? Doesn’t he know that his little brother works for the “right” side of the law now, and therefore _doesn’t_ get to know what’s going on with the club anymore? That little _shit_ —

“We’re not a gang,” Jules says reasonably. “We’re a club of automotive mechanics and motorcycle enthusiasts.”

“I don’t care what you call yourselves,” Henriksen spits, brow furrowed. “Two of your _club_ members were at Dean’s house earlier today, and now he’s gone. I know what kind of shit you tangle with on a day-to-day basis, so forgive me if I don’t believe it when you say you had nothing to do with it.”

“We don’t know anything,” Cas says.

“Right. Just like you didn’t know anything when your brother was hit by a car. He got hurt, bad, and we couldn’t do anything to help because of you—all of you,” Henriksen says. “We don’t know what’s happened to Dean yet, but it could end even worse if you don’t tell us what you know.”

Luce does his best not to tense up, but he simply can’t stop himself from taking his eyes off the deputy to look over at Cas. He’s relieved to see that Cas isn’t wavering, meeting Henriksen’s eyes stolidly. He knows that Cas knows what he’s doing—he couldn’t have become VP if he didn’t—but it’s good to know that he can’t be manipulated so easily. With anyone else, Luce wouldn’t have a doubt, but Dean…

“I think that you’d be better off looking elsewhere,” Cas says.

“Deputy,” Limey says before Henriksen can respond, “you say that two of us were at Dean Winchester’s house earlier today, but whoever it was, it’s just their word against ours. I’m not an expert or anything, but even the writers on shitty TV shows know that that’s not probable cause for you to come storming in here like you just did. This is private property.”

Henriksen looks betrayed for some reason when his eyes land on Limey, but his next words are directed at Cas. “Look, I don’t—I don’t care about the gunfight that you had with—whoever—yesterday. There’s a life at stake here. Do you understand that?”

Luce looks back over at Cas, but he doesn’t break, doesn’t even look away as he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, officer.” Luce almost wants to slow clap. “Maybe you have time to waste chasing dead leads, but it’d be better for the good doctor if you found him sooner rather than later, and you’re just wasting your time, here.”

Henriksen is furious when Luce looks in his direction again—it’s such a satisfying sight.

“Officer,” Jules says quietly, “it shouldn’t be news to you that we don’t trust you. You, naturally, do not trust us. We can’t change these two facts. But what I’m about to tell you is the truth. If you came here looking for answers, this is as much as we can tell you.”

What is he _doing?_ Looking around the table, Luce is pretty sure everyone is thinking the same thing. Except Bobby, who doesn’t look concerned as much as thoughtful.

“The gunfight that you witnessed was between us and a gang from Oakland,” Jules says, and Luce almost wants to clap a hand over his mouth. Jules is certainly within reach. “I’m certain you’ve heard of them—the Bloody ‘Nines. We do not know for sure, but if Dean is missing as well, then perhaps they took him. They kidnapped my granddaughter.”

“Granddaughter?” Henriksen repeats, but his eyes are wide, like he hadn’t expected Jules to come out with all this information.

“Claire Novak. Jimmy’s daughter,” Jules clarifies.

“And you expect me to believe you.”

“As I said, if you came here for an answer, then that is my answer,” Jules says. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’d like to discuss how best to find her.”

There’s a long moment, and then Henriksen stalks out of the room. Alf and Bacon linger in the doorway for about two seconds before Alf pushes Bacon out of the way and yanks the door closed. And then, of course, all hell breaks loose, because what the _fuck_ was Jules _thinking?_

* * *

Victor walks out to the squad car, where Sam is waiting. He’s still more than a little shell-shocked by the information, and he needs a minute to process it.

“Well?” Sam says when he gets in.

“I don’t know how much to believe.”

“You mean they actually _told_ you something,” Sam says, sounding surprised.

“Yes,” Victor replies. “They said that it was the ‘Nines who took Dean—probably—because they apparently took Claire, too. Claire Novak.”

“Aw, shit,” Sam says.

“You were on the inside before. Do you have any idea how much stock we can put in what Jules says?”

“You mean Jules said it?” Sam says. When Victor nods, Sam says, “Oh god, I don’t know. He’s—he’s always been hard to pin down. I mean, I haven’t talked to him since I left the club, but he used to scare me, a little.”

Victor laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, I think he scares everybody. So you don’t know how much we should believe him.”

Sam shakes his head. “God, I have no idea.”

“Well, he said that the shootout yesterday was between them and the ‘Nines of Oakland,” Victor says. “Does that sound probable? Oakland’s an hour and a half away from here.”

“I don’t know,” Sam says. After a pause, he says, “I’m uh, I’m not supposed to talk about this, but I’m actually the legal consultant on a case against the Reapers, and—”

“You’re kidding me,” Victor interrupts. “So you’re working with Agent Crowley.”

Sam squints at him. “Uh, yeah. Wow, okay, so you’ve also talked to him. Right—obviously he’d have to set up camp out here somewhere, and where better than the local police station.”

Victor nods. “It’d probably be a good idea to call him on this, then. He’s got more details on the Reapers’ current situation than we do.”

“Yeah, good call,” Sam says, pulling out his phone.

The prospects from earlier come out of the clubhouse, and the one that had tried to prevent his entry folds his arms across his chest, glaring at the car. So Victor starts the car and shifts into reverse, preparing to back out of the lot.

“Shit,” Sam says just as his phone goes off. “Uh, hold on a sec,” he says to Victor before picking up. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” he pauses, listening.

Victor just goes on ahead and finishes backing out into the street, heading back toward the bar because they may not have any leads right this second, but they should probably let Jo know what’s going on.

“Look, something came up,” Sam says into the phone. “I can’t go home just yet. Don’t worry, all right?” Pause. “Yeah, I know. I—I _know_. I’ll be careful. Bye.” Pause. “Yeah—love you, too. Bye.”

“Girlfriend?” Victor says when Sam hangs up.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Hey, no worries. If you’ve gotta head back, I can drop you off by your car—we’re headed back to the Roadhouse right now anyway. I’ve got this under control.”

Sam just gives Victor an incredulous look, as though he’s being ridiculous for even _suggesting_ that Sam would go home instead of staying in Morada to search for Dean.

“Yeah, okay,” Victor says, stopping at a red light. “Call Crowley, then.”

* * *

When Crowley’s phone finally rings, the caller ID shows Sam’s personal phone number rather than the number of the prepaid phone that he gave him this morning. Of _course_ the damn moose would forget to use the phone that Crowley _specifically requested_ that he use.

“About time,” Crowley says as he picks up, but before he can even start on the phone business, Sam cuts him off.

“My brother’s gone.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and then Crowley says, frowning, “Gone? What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

“I mean that he’s not here,” Sam says. “His car is at home, but he isn’t there. He’s gone. Taken. Kidnapped. Got it?”

“Ah,” Crowley says, and falls silent because this, this is an interesting turn of events.

Of course Crowley knows the Winchesters’ history with the club—that was why he selected Sam to be his consultant in the first place. But he hadn’t expected Dean to be drawn into any of this, not unless he was caught talking to Sam about something club-related. And Crowley is reasonably certain that Sam wouldn’t put his own brother in danger like that, especially not if he sounds so concerned about his disappearance.

“Crowley,” Sam says, impatient.

“Just a moment,” Crowley says.

When he weighs the likelihoods, it seems any of the factions is equally likely to have taken Dean, except for the Amazons, perhaps, because they seem to have a good relationship with the Reapers—there’s no reason for them to want to hold a former member of the Reapers against his will.

And then he remembers the shootout that went down yesterday just outside Morada, the one where Cas got shot.

Ah. If the Reapers avoided St. David’s, which they did, they would have had to choose a doctor they trusted. If they chose Dean, then they would have put him in the ‘Nines’ sights—that makes the ‘Nines the most likely culprits.

“When did this happen?” Crowley asks.

“I don’t know. Sometime this evening,” Sam says. “Or maybe even in the afternoon.”

“I see,” Crowley says.

He isn’t sure what his best option is, now. He needs to wait and see how the Reapers react to this—their reaction will help him gauge how important Dean is to them. If he really is important, then it would be worth Crowley’s while to rescue him from the ‘Nines and keep him from the Reapers, as leverage.

But if not, then there’s no point in wasting resources on a rescue.

“I need time to work out the likelihood of each club taking Dean,” Crowley says.

“We’re already pretty sure it’s the ‘Nines,” Sam says. “We—well, Victor spoke with the—”

“Victor? You’re with Victor Henriksen?” Crowley interrupts.

“Uh, yeah. He’s a friend of mine.”

“Very well then. You were saying that he spoke with the Reapers, I presume?”

“Yeah. And they said it was the ‘Nines,” Sam says. It is unlike the Reapers to give away information easily, though, so Crowley isn’t sure what to make of the information. Then Sam adds, “They uh, also said that Claire Novak is missing, and that the ‘Nines might have taken her _and_ Dean.”

Well, that complicates things. If Dean and Claire are in the same place, then of _course_ the Reapers will still be concerned. They _have_ to be concerned, where Claire Novak is concerned.

Actually, no—that simplifies things. Forget about Dean—the person Crowley needs to concern himself with now is Claire Novak.

“I wouldn’t put all my faith in the Reapers’ words,” Crowley says to Sam, because if he is to take Claire Novak and hold her against the Reapers, then he can’t have Henriksen riding out to Oakland on some half-assed rescue mission.

“Okay, then give me your best guess,” Sam demands.

“Patience,” Crowley chides. “Besides, how do you expect me to just _guess_ , without having considered all the variables? Your best clue right now is the club, so your best bet to find Dean is to keep an eye on those bikers and find out what they’re doing.”

“Uh huh,” Sam says. “Thanks for nothing.”

“Now, don’t be ungrateful,” Crowley says. “I’ll call you tomorrow with an answer.”

“Fine,” Sam says. “Bye.”

Crowley hangs up the phone and looks down at it for a moment. He’s going to need some manpower in Oakland, and fast. The Reapers aren’t ones to drag their feet when it comes to action.

* * *

It takes Meg five rings to answer her phone the second time around—she didn’t answer at all the first time—and when she finally does, she sounds annoyed. “The hell do you want?” she demands.

“ _Dude_ ,” Ruby says, frowning. “It’s not even that late. Were you sleeping or what?”

“I was in the middle of something. What do you want?” Meg snaps.

“I just thought—maybe you should check to see if something’s going down in Morada,” Ruby says.

There’s a long pause, and then Meg says, suspiciously, “Why?”

Ruby must sound too anxious. “Well, there’s been a lot of shit going down lately,” she says, trying to play it off. “I just figured—we hadn’t really heard anything today, so maybe you could—”

“Okay, cut the crap,” Meg says. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Ruby says. “I just know that something’s going on. Just check it out—you don’t even have to go out there. Just call Luce.”

Meg sounds even more suspicious as she says, “Ruby, what’s going on?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” she repeats forcefully, and then reminds herself to tone it down. She doesn’t even know whether or not this is club-related. For all she knows, there could have been some sort of family emergency, and maybe _that_ is why Sam isn’t coming home.

Either way, Sam had sounded worried over the phone, and Ruby doesn’t like that.

“So you want me to call my dad and ask him if anything’s happening in Morada, for no reason at all.”

“Just call him and ask how he’s doing, or something.”

“Ruby, I’ve been up to Morada a couple times in the past few days. I know he’s fine,” Meg says.

“You can’t _know_ that he’s fine,” Ruby hedges.

“Mhmm,” Meg says. “Look, we’re going to see them tomorrow morning anyway for the drop-off, so why can’t we just talk about it then?”

“Why can’t you just check?” Ruby says. She doesn’t want to wait overnight, and when she tried to call Sam again, he had been on the line with someone else, and her call had gone straight to voicemail.

Meg sighs heavily. “Yeah all right, _fine_. But if it’s nothing, you owe me one, got it?”

“Got it,” Ruby says.

She hangs up the phone and shoves it back into her pocket. Well, if Sam’s not coming home, she’d better figure out something to eat…

* * *

When Sam and Victor reenter the Roadhouse, they look considerably more worried than they did when they left, and it makes Jo tense up involuntarily.

“What’s going on?” she asks when they come up to her at the bar.

Sam looks around before saying, voice lowered slightly, “Dean wasn’t at the house, but the Impala was parked out front.”

Oh, _no_ —that can’t be good, Jo thinks. She’s thankful that tonight isn’t a busy night, because it means she can talk to Sam and Victor without leaving too many people hanging.

“We need your help,” Sam continues.

“Yeah, of course,” Jo says. “Anything I can do.”

“Well—you’re not part of the club, but you’re closer to them than we are,” Sam says. “Could you or your mom maybe ask about who took Dean? They gave us an answer, but we don’t know whether or not they were telling the truth.”

“I don’t really have contact with any club members outside of Bobby, but Mom still talks to Naomi now and then,” Jo says. Mom and Naomi have been friends for a long time, apparently. It makes sense, since they were both old ladies, but with Dad locked up, they don’t get together as often as they supposedly used to—Jo doesn’t remember because she was too young at the time.

“Okay, great,” Sam says. “I guess—could you talk to her?”

“Sure, if you can man the bar. You know how to mix a drink?” Jo asks.

“Uh…” Sam says uncertainly.

“Or maybe you should explain it to her,” Jo says.

“Right,” Sam says, looking down the bar to where Mom is working on a drink.

“I think I’m gonna go down to the station,” Victor says. “Gonna check in with everyone there, see if they heard anything. Maybe someone called in an anonymous tip—you never know. Call me if you guys find out something.”

“Gotcha,” Jo says as Sam goes toward Mom. Victor leaves, and Jo turns her attention to the other people gathered around the bar.

Six or seven drinks later, Jo turns around and sets a Long Island Iced Tea down in front of a tall, busty girl with dark hair. Sam is sitting next to her, a safe distance between them, eyes pointedly on Jo.

“What did Mom say?” Jo says, taking a step to her left so that she’s directly across from him.

“Jo, I’m heading out!” Mom calls out just then, which pretty much answers her question. “Ash is already on his way over!”

Jo nods and turns back to Sam. “Okay, so what’re you gonna do, now?”

“I think I’ll stick around ‘til closing,” Sam answers. “I need somewhere to stay overnight, and I’d stay at Dean’s, except—”

“It might not be safe,” Jo finishes. “Yeah, that’s fine. You can stay with me and my mom. It’ll be just like old times,” she says, trying to smile at the end and failing, because yeah, it’ll be just like old times, except back then Dean was never _kidnapped_.

“Right,” Sam says. “Uh, well I gotta call my girlfriend and let her know that I won’t be coming home tonight.”

“You can go into the back room, if you want some privacy,” Jo says.

“That’d be great—thanks.”

* * *

It’s quiet in the back room, and Sam walks over to a chair and sits down as he waits for Ruby to pick up.

“Sam?” she says, sounding a little out of breath.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. I was getting ready to shower when I heard the phone go off,” Ruby explains.

“Oh, okay.”

“What’s going on up there?” Ruby demands.

“You don’t have to worry about it,” Sam says. “It’s just—Dean’s missing.”

Ruby sounds concerned. “Missing? How do you know he’s not just out?”

“Well, he left his car at home. And he wasn’t answering his calls, and he’d said that he was gonna come meet me, and two other people, at this bar. He didn’t show.”

“God, that’s—wow. Did you call the police, or was it something to do with the Reapers?” Ruby asks.

Sam sighs. “Both, kinda? I was already with the deputy, so I didn’t have to call the police. And I’m pretty sure he was taken because of the Reapers, but not by them.”

“Mhmm,” Ruby says.

“Look, I know you’re supposed to be loyal to your club and all, but could you just keep this information to yourself for the time being? I don’t really know what to think, but—”

“It’s fine. If you don’t want the Amazons to know, they won’t know,” Ruby interrupts. “I mean, hey, it’s your family, not club business.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, relieved. “Thanks, Ruby.”

“So—are you not coming home, tonight?”

“Nah. I’ve got fam—friends I can stay with up here,” Sam says.

“Okay, then,” Ruby says. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will. You don’t do anything stupid either, all right?”

Ruby laughs. “I never do stupid things,” she replies.

“Yeah. Right,” Sam says, smiling a little. It’s so good to hear her voice, her laughter.

“Well, I’m gonna go shower, then. Try not to worry too much, all right? I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

* * *

They take two cars on the drive out to Oakland because going in on their bikes would be way too obvious, too conspicuous. Limey drives up front with Cas, and the Nomads follow behind him in another car—they’ll be splitting up when they hit city limits.

To his right, Cas has been silent for almost the whole ride so far, giving monosyllabic answers to anything Limey says, and it’s horrible.

Limey can’t remember the last time he saw Cas like this, except that he can—it had been right after Cas’s dad’s death, right around when Dean up and left. Seeing him like this again, closed off and angry, only confirms Limey’s suspicions that Cas is as devoted to Dean as he always was. He grits his teeth at the thought, because Dean may have cared about Cas and looked after him, but he was the one who left—he was the one who didn’t know or didn’t care to know what that did to Cas.

They’d still been at the same school for a long time after Dean left, and while Limey is very proud of the man Cas is today, it still hurts to think about what he went through to get here.

“Cas, you need to talk to me.”

No response.

A quick glance to his right reveals that Cas isn’t sleeping, so Limey tries again, “I know that I haven’t—that it seems like I don’t like Dean.”

“That’s because you _don’t_ like him,” Cas says, direct as always.

“I liked him just fine before he abandoned you,” Limey says, and he doesn’t miss the way Cas stiffens in his seat. “You need to be able to talk about this, Cas. I ignored it in the past because that was obviously what you wanted to do—just bury it all—but that’s clearly not going to help.”

“Help what? I’m fine.”

Limey sighs. “Cas, you’re not fine.”

“You’re not me. You can’t know that.”

“Cas, I know you.”

“You can’t tell me what to feel.”

“I’m not,” Limey argues. “I’m telling you what you _are_ feeling, because I know what you’re feeling.”

“You don’t—”

“You feel like your stomach has dropped right out of you. Like, like there’s something stuck in your lungs, and every breath you take gets caught on it, scratches you up. Or maybe it’s not exactly that, but whatever it is, it makes you hurt, all over, and you wish it was enough to just kill you already, but it isn’t, so you keep on going, and you keep on hurting.

“I know how you feel because that’s how I felt, caught between the two things I love most in the world. I had to choose one and not the other, and either way… well, either way, I was going to lose one of them,” Limey finishes.

Cas is silent for a good length of time after that, but Limey doesn’t try to talk to him, just lets him process the information. Limey thought before that letting him be was the best course of action, but now it’s becoming clear that Cas _needs_ to figure himself out if he’s going to make it through this without losing his head.

“Thank you,” Cas finally says, slow but sure, and Limey just nods.

If Cas really needs Dean Winchester, then Limey can accept that. After all, Cas accepted Limey’s choice to leave the club, believing that it would be permanent, without complaint. It’s only right for Limey to support him in return.

But if Dean leaves Cas again, Limey is gonna hunt the fucker down and murder him.

* * *

Benny is waiting for the van when it appears on the drive, and he immediately opens up the garage door to let them in. Lenore and Andrea are with him, and Alpha stands by the door, one arm still bandaged up.

“Oh my god,” Lenore gasps, and Benny feels his blood run cold when he gets closer to the van and sees his twin brother in the passenger seat, pale and unconscious, a blood-stained cloth wrapped around his shoulder. Boris told them what happened over the phone, of course, but it’s one thing to hear about it and another to actually see it.

Benny pulls the door open and immediately presses his fingers to his brother’s neck, relieved that the skin under his touch is warm, doubly relieved to find that the pulse under his fingers is still there, nice and strong.

“He’s gonna be fine,” a hoarse voice says from the back, and that must be Dean Winchester.

“The doctor saved his life,” Boris says, a little begrudgingly. “Cas Novak got him while we were on our way out of town.”

“Take him upstairs,” Alpha says from the doorway, and Benny nods, goes to lift his brother from the car. “Andrea,” Alpha instructs, “help Boris take our guests into the cellar.”

Right, _guests_ , in the plural. They heard from Boris that Dean apparently brought a plus one, and that it was Claire Novak—Cas’s niece. It makes things a little messier, but Alpha wasn’t upset with the news, so it’s still acceptable.

Benny hauls Eli over to the door, and Alpha steps out of the way. They make their way up to the second floor, Lenore helping out with Eli’s weight and opening the doors that they encounter on their way. Alpha is very calm about it, but he’s clearly concerned about Eli, because he follows them upstairs instead of going down to talk to Dean and Claire.

“Are we actually keeping them in the cellar the whole time they’re here?” Benny asks as they set Eli down in bed.

“No,” Alpha says. “I’d like you to take them to one of the safe houses, as soon as possible.”

“Now, then? I could leave now,” Benny says.

Alpha considers it for a moment before nodding. “Yes, now. Eli will be all right here.”

“Probably should’ve just left ‘em in the van,” Benny comments, and Alpha chuckles.

“Yes, I suppose. Go on. Pack some things before you go, though. I’d like you to stay with them, for the time being.”

“Got it.”

* * *

When a phone goes off, Michael wakes up almost instantly. It’s Luce’s ringtone, but Luce is still dead to the world, so Michael reaches over him and snatches the phone from his bedside table to answer it.

“Hey, Daddy.”

“Meg?” Michael says.

After a pause, Meg says, “Oh, Mike. Uh, is Dad around?”

“Yeah, but he’s asleep,” Michael responds. “We chose to stay at the clubhouse tonight, so we’re sharing a room.”

“Oh. Why are you staying at the clubhouse?” Meg asks, frowning.

“We have an early start tomorrow morning—Abaddon keeps to an early schedule,” Michael says.

“Ah, yeah, that she does,” Meg says.

“Did you need something?” Michael asks.

“Uh, no, it’s fine,” Meg says. “I’m going to the meet tomorrow anyway, so I’ll see him then.”

“All right,” Michael says slowly.

“Good night, Mike!” Meg says before hanging up, and Michael leans over to return the phone to its original spot on Luce’s nightstand.

What does that girl want? Michael can’t imagine it being anything great for Reapers MC, if she was only willing to share it with Luce. Luce is one of the most dedicated, loyal members of the MC—that’s how he got the spot as Sergeant-at-Arms, after all—but his biggest blind spot is Meg, so Michael makes a point to keep an eye on her.

Making up his mind, Michael gets out of bed and goes to check if Jules is still around, making sure that Luce is still asleep before he exits the room.

* * *

Ellen Harvelle drives onto the lot just as Alf is going to pull the gates closed—apparently quite a few people are staying at the clubhouse tonight, on sleeping bags and couches and split up into the back rooms. Bacon chose to go home, though, as did Aggie.

Alf jogs over to the car as she gets out of the driver’s seat, and he keeps pace with her as she walks toward the clubhouse. “Uh, Ellen, hey.”

“I’m looking for Naomi.”

“Oh. It’s not really a good time, right now,” Alf says.

“I can decide that for myself,” Ellen says shortly, continuing the rest of the way to the clubhouse.

Alf follows her inside, half-expecting to be scolded for not stopping her, but she’s an old lady, one of the few in this club, and you treat old ladies with respect. Ellen especially, since her man is _Famine_.

“Ellen,” Naomi says, a hint of surprise in her voice. She’s sitting at the bar next to Jules, nursing a drink. No one else is in here—they must have gone into the back rooms to sleep.

“Naomi,” Ellen says warmly, crossing the room and leaning in to hug her.

“You can go on home,” Jules says, and Alf looks over to see that he’s looking back. “You can stay here if you like, but either way, you need to be rested for the meet tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Alf says.

“I don’t anticipate any problems, but I’ll be riding with the rest of you tomorrow morning. After tonight’s complications, we’ll need to discuss some things with Abaddon,” Jules continues.

Alf is just surprised that he’s even sharing this information—maybe Jules is thinking about patching him in. “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”

Jules nods, and Alf turns and exits the room.

* * *

When the prospect has left the room, Ellen says, “I saw Bill today and passed your message on to him.”

Jules nods. “Thank you for realizing the importance of this for the club.”

“Jules, you _do_ realize that that was probably the thing that got our granddaughter kidnapped in the first place,” Naomi says bitterly, and that’s news to Ellen, because Sam hadn’t mentioned that Claire was kidnapped, too.

“Oh, god,” Ellen says. “What’s happened?”

Before they can explain, Mike emerges from the hall leading to the back rooms, and he hesitates at the sight of Ellen—it makes sense, since Ellen hasn’t come to the clubhouse in some time.

“It’s all right,” Jules says to Mike. “We were just filling Ellen in on the situation.”

“Mm,” Mike says, going behind the bar and walking over to them. “Well, I just intercepted a call from Meg to Luce. I figured that I should let you know, because it sounded like she knew something, and I just… can’t think of any way that she would have found out.”

“That is strange,” Jules says. “We already know that the ‘Nines took Dean—” which means Jules _was_ telling the truth when he spoke with Victor “—and the ‘Nines and Demons have never got along, so by association, they wouldn’t be close to the Amazons, either.”

“Yeah, that’s basically what I’ve got,” Mike says, shrugging.

“Don’t worry too much about it,” Jules decides eventually. “We’ll see Abaddon tomorrow morning anyway, to make the drop.”

Ellen is almost surprised that they’d discuss something like this openly in front of her, but then again, she was pretty deep in the club in the past, what with her marriage to Bill and her friendship with Naomi. It’s so easy to forget that, because she hasn’t dealt with the club on a day-to-day basis for years.

“Yeah, guess so,” Mike says. “Well, I’m gonna head back to bed.”

Jules nods, and Mike pads out of the room. Looking over at Ellen, Jules says, “You ladies can carry on without me; I’m going to get some rest as well.”

“Good night,” Naomi says, leaning up to press a kiss to Jules’s lips.

He smiles down at her, and it’s brief, but there’s a surprising tenderness to his eyes, one that Ellen has only seen a handful of times before, all directed toward Naomi.

“Good night,” Jules bids his wife, and then he leaves the room, too.

Naomi sighs when he’s gone and turns toward Ellen. “Well, you came here for a reason. Lay it on me.”

“I’m fine,” Ellen says.

“Oh, honey,” Naomi says, getting to her feet and going around behind the bar, “you saw Bill today for the first time in months. Talk to me.”

Ellen accepts the two fingers of whiskey that Naomi pours her, and for a moment she thinks that she really shouldn’t. After all, Sam and Victor are still waiting for confirmation, and Dean’s missing. But Naomi needs someone to talk to, too—her granddaughter has been taken.

And if Ellen is really being honest with herself, she _does_ need to talk about Bill.

So she downs the glass and sets it back down on the bar between them, sliding it over to Naomi. “Top me off, and let’s get started,” she says.

“That’s my girl,” Naomi says, smiling, and pours her another glass.

* * *

The man who’s been kidnapped with Claire calls himself Dean—that’s how he’d introduced himself when he came to pick her up. He’d also had Uncle Cas’s ring—the right ring, the one that meant it was safe, because having the AP ring or both rings meant that Cas didn’t give up the rings and that something very, very bad was happening—so Claire had decided to go with him.

But now, she’s been kidnapped, and she can’t decide whether or not it was her fault—whether or not she walked into this trap. Oh, Uncle Cas will be so disappointed in her if it turns out that this is her fault.

The ropes rub uncomfortably against her arms, but she doesn’t squirm.

Uncle Cas taught her so well, and he’s always been so proud of her. Just the thought of him being disappointed with her is enough to have her chewing her bottom lip, anxious.

She looks over at Dean again and notices that the ring is on his finger—his hands are tied behind his back, but the hand with the ring is only just visible from where Claire is sitting, to his right. He must have put it on while he was saving the bad guy who got shot.

Frowning, Claire asks, “Why did you save the guy who took us?”

Dean’s head shoots up, and he looks over at her, surprised. “What?”

“If you’re really Uncle Cas’s friend, then you oughta know that bad guys are _supposed_ to be shot.”

“Not all people solve problems the way your Uncle Cas solves them,” Dean answers.

“But bad guys need to be killed, or else they’ll kill all the good guys. If a good guy had killed the bad guys who kidnapped us, then we wouldn’t have been kidnapped,” Claire reasons.

“True, but death isn’t the only punishment out there, and it isn’t the only way to keep bad guys off the streets,” Dean says. “They can be caught and sent to jail.”

Well… he has a point. Bad guys can’t hurt people from jail. Unless they’re the Joker, because even though he’s a bad guy, the Joker is still badass—not that Claire is supposed to know or use that word.

“Oh!” Claire says suddenly, because the Joker _didn’t_ get killed. “Like Batman, right?” she asks, looking up at Dean. “Batman doesn’t kill people, and he’s a hero.”

Dean smiles and says, “Yeah, Batman is exactly who I was talking about.”

Claire smiles back, proud of herself for being right, and then announces, “Batman is cool, but Uncle Cas likes Iron Man better.”

Dean laughs at that and looks down as he says, softly, “Oh, he would.”

Claire doesn’t understand what the words are supposed to mean, but there’s something happy in Dean’s eyes when he says them, even if Claire can’t see him straight-on, a quiet kind of happiness that she doesn’t ever see in kids her age and that she almost never sees with adults.

After thinking about it for a minute, she decides that she’s only seen it with Mommy and Daddy, and then sometimes in the way Grandma looks at Grandpa.

No, this wasn’t her fault—she wasn’t wrong. She’s sure of it now, because Uncle Cas taught her to trust her eyes and her instincts. Her eyes tell her that Dean gets that quiet, happy feeling when he thinks about Uncle Cas. Her instincts had told her to trust him from the beginning, but she’d waited until he showed her the ring before going with him.

This wasn’t her fault at all, because Dean loves Uncle Cas.


	7. John the Revelator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Amazons and Reapers meet and agree to help each other. Alpha Worthington and Dick Roman meet to discuss the terms of an alliance. Dean and Claire manage to escape from the 'Nines, but not without some unexpected help from the inside. After coming so close to losing each other, Dean and Cas are forced to confront their history and their feelings for each other. Sam is relieved to see Dean return home safely, but he can't relax for long; one of the Reapers of the Nomad Charter delivers a bundle of letters to him that renews his motivation to take the club down.

The sun has barely risen when the Reapers arrive, four bikes preceding a white van. Bela is surprised to see that Jules is leading them—he hardly ever comes for drop-offs like this one, leaving them to Mike and Luce to handle. His presence today… doesn’t bode well.

“Jules!” Abaddon says as he dismounts. “You didn’t say you’d be joining us, today.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t,” Jules says, taking a few steps toward the Amazons. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Abaddon replies.

The other bikers—Mike, Gabe, and Bobby—remove their helmets and come up to flank Jules, and Bela realizes that Luce is not among them—strange. But he steps out of the van a moment later, and that’s—even stranger. Bela can’t remember whether or not she’s _ever_ seen Luce ride in the van with a prospect.

“I have some matters to discuss with you, but I suggest we complete our transaction first, since that is what you came for,” Jules says.

“Fine by me,” Abaddon says.

She turns and nods to Meg, who carries the duffel bag of money over to the Reapers and hands it off to Mike. Luce passes her the keys to the van, and she accepts them before returning to her place behind Abaddon. The duffel bag gets passed to the prospect, who opens it to do a quick check.

“So,” Abaddon says, “what happened that’s important enough for you to come unannounced?”

“A lot has happened in the past week,” Jules says. “Some of it you already know, I’m sure, but I thought it’d be best to touch base with you personally, so that you can get your information directly from the source.” His eyes shift away from Abaddon and land on Meg for just a second, and it figures that Jules would know they were using her to fish for information. Nothing gets past that old bastard.

“Bring me up to speed, then,” Abaddon says.

“My son was shot Thursday night, by one of the—”

“By ‘your son,’ do you mean Cas?” Meg breaks in.

“I do, yes,” Jules responds. “The wound was not fatal. Regardless, we retaliated.”

“Naturally,” Abaddon says, nodding.

“In response to our retaliation, the ‘Nines took my granddaughter,” Jules says.

The words come out measured, calm and steady, and Bela can only wonder what on earth the club is doing here, at a gun drop-off, when they should be scouring Oakland for their _missing child_. It’s one thing to kill members from other clubs—they know what they signed up for, after all—but _kidnapping a_ _child_ … that’s crossing a line.

“I’m sorry. Do you need our help finding Claire?” Abaddon asks, because of course she remembers the granddaughter’s name. She remembers everything.

“I appreciate the offer, but that was not the main reason behind my visit,” Jules says. “I believe the ‘Nines took Claire not just as revenge, but also as a means of controlling us. You were the one who informed us that the Campbells and Leviathans were working together. Now, I’d like to tell you that that alliance is likely to fall apart, because the ‘Nines mean to make a move on Lodi.”

“Do they now?” Abaddon says.

“It is the reason why they wanted to meet with us,” Jules replies. “When we made it clear that we weren’t interested in partnering with them, they opened fire.”

“Not very polite,” Abaddon comments. “Well, I’m assuming you didn’t come here just to give me an FYI. What do you want from us?”

“There is going to be a struggle in Lodi—it is unavoidable,” Jules says. “It would be best for all of us if that fight did not spill over into Morada. After all, once the fighting has come to Morada, it won’t be long before it goes to Stockton as well, and I doubt you want that.”

“Mhmm. Are you asking for our assistance against Leviathans MC, then?”

“It would be greatly appreciated,” Jules replies, “especially as several of our men are out in Oakland, searching for my granddaughter.”

Bela catches Abaddon looking in her direction, consulting her wordlessly. Turning to face Jules, Bela says, “So you’re proposing an alliance. We should discuss terms.”

“Of course,” Jules says. “What do you suggest?”

“We don’t get much out of this relationship,” Bela says. “There is no direct threat to us, so we should be compensated for assisting you.”

“Reasonable,” Jules accepts with a nod. The other Reapers seem to be of the same mind, except for Luce, who always tends to look generally disapproving when there is more talking than shooting. “What form of compensation do you want—cash or artillery?”

Before Bela can respond, Abaddon says, “How about you lower your prices fifty percent for the duration of our cooperation?”

“Done,” Jules says easily. “Anything else?”

“Information,” Bela says. “We need free communication between clubs, if this alliance is to work.”

“Communication, yes,” Jules says, nodding. “But you must understand that we cannot promise to give away our secrets freely.”

“Of course,” Abaddon says. “I only have one more concern: what is your position on the Demons’ involvement?”

At this question, the Reapers as a whole tense up noticeably, with the exception of Jules himself. Bela supposes it isn’t surprising that they don’t want the Demons to participate—Azazel and Lilith have their own goals of expansion, and even if they didn’t take Morada in the beginning, taking Lodi would mean that they’d be traveling back and forth through Morada on a regular basis. It would only be a matter of time before they set their sights on Reaper territory.

“We’d prefer it if you did not involve the Demons in this—in fact, we’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to them,” Jules says.

“I understand,” Abaddon says.

“Do we have an accord, then?” Jules asks.

“Before we set anything down,” Bela says quickly, “how long do you expect this arrangement to last?”

“Until the threat has been eliminated,” Jules answers. “But I realize you are unsatisfied with that answer. Let’s… set it for one month. If the ‘Nines have not been driven from Lodi in that time, then we can talk about extending this alliance.”

“That’s acceptable,” Abaddon announces.

“Very well,” Jules says gravely.

They both step toward each other, extending their right hands almost in unison. Their handshake seals the deal.

* * *

Richard lets a night pass before going to the safe house to visit his guests.

Before leaving his home, he orders Lenore, Andrea, and Boris to get Eli situated in the safe room. Then he instructs Andrea to close it down with Lenore inside, just for the day. There should be enough supplies in there to last well over six weeks, but Richard is hardly expecting the worst. At most, a few Reapers will come searching for Dean Winchester and Claire Novak.

Ordinarily, that would be of little consequence to Richard, but Eli is injured, so it would be best to eliminate any chance of the Reapers coming across him.

After securing Lenore and Eli, Richard and Boris depart, leaving Andrea behind to look after the estate—she is more than capable of defending herself.

The ride to the safe house is short, and when Richard arrives, Benny comes out to meet him.

“Have you slept?” Richard asks, concerned.

“Yes, of course,” Benny says, but the dark circles under his eyes tell a different story.

Richard doesn’t press, though. After all, he knows his sons very well. Eli was just shot. It only makes sense that Benny wouldn’t be able to sleep well, knowing that his injured brother was out of his reach.

“I put Eli into the safe room,” Richard says. “Lenore is there to watch over him. He’ll be all right.”

“I know,” Benny says. Then he steps back and says, “They’re both awake, if you want to talk to them.”

Richard nods his thanks and steps past his son, into the house. It is very small compared to his estate, a one-story building with three bedrooms, two bathrooms. Richard has never wanted for cash, and he could have built himself another large house, but safe houses are far better insignificant and discreet than flashy and lavish.

“They’re locked in here,” Benny says, slipping past Richard and leading the way down one of the hallways. He unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping back to allow Richard inside.

Standing in the doorway, Richard sees that the bed has been removed from this room, leaving it bare except for a dresser against one wall and a small table in the corner adjacent to it. Dean and Claire are both still tied up, sitting against the wall farthest from the door, and Richard steps inside. Benny follows close behind, no doubt concerned because of the bullet wound Richard sustained in Morada.

“Hello, Dean, Claire,” Richard says.

“Are you the boss?” Claire demands with all the petulance of a child her age.

Richard smiles. “I suppose I am,” he replies.

But her expression smooths out after his response, and she says, calmly, “You’ll pay for this. Uncle Cas will make sure of that.”

Richard supposes he shouldn’t be surprised at her level of maturity, given her upbringing. Jimmy Novak may not be a member of the club, but he is still the stepson of the president and twin of the VP, so Claire must have been raised at least in part by the club.

“I don’t intend to hurt you,” he says, turning his eyes to his other guest.

Dean is watching him defiantly, and now that Richard has seen him in person, he has no doubts at all that this is the son of Mary Winchester née Campbell. Despite the masculine cut of his jaw and jut of his cheekbones, there is something delicate about his features, something that unmistakably draws Richard’s mind to the fierce, young woman he met over three decades ago.

“This doesn’t have to be an unhappy arrangement,” Richard continues when neither Dean nor Claire responds to him. “You will only need to stay here for a short period of time, and then I will have you brought back home.”

“The hell is the point of all this, then?” Dean asks.

“I told my men to persuade you to come. I assume you weren’t persuaded, so they could only resort to such measures,” Richard says.

“ _Persuade_ us? Right, because a gun is so _persuasive_.”

“I apologize for their lack of manners,” Richard says.

“Yeah, you’re not so much better yourself,” Dean says. “Or if you’re so insistent on being _polite_ , why don’t you untie us, hmm?”

“You’ll try to leave. I can’t have that, yet.”

“That’s what I thought,” Dean says, looking away.

Richard turns his eyes back on Claire, but she’s just staring back, even and unwavering, unwilling to give ground. Regretfully, Richard says, “I understand why you’re reacting this way—in your place, I cannot say I wouldn’t be doing the exact same thing. Regardless, my offer to you is this: if you agree to stay here for the necessary length of time, I will unbind you.”

As expected, they do not answer him.

“Take some time to consider it. It would be more pleasant for everyone involved, I assure you.”

Having finished speaking his piece, Richard exits the room, letting Benny close and lock it behind him. He starts back toward the front door, but before he can reach it, his phone vibrates in the breast pocket of his coat, and he removes it to see that Andrea is the one calling.

It has scarcely been fifteen minutes since he left—have they made their move already?

* * *

As soon as Alpha Worthington’s car pulls out of the long driveway and disappears around the bend in the road, Cas reaches for the door handle. But Limey grabs his elbow before he can get out of the car, and he whips back to face his friend, impatient.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Limey asks, frowning.

“I’m fine,” Cas says. It’s not even a lie. He’d ended up sleeping through most of the night because Limey had insisted on keeping watch. That had ended up working out great though, because Cas had felt a little faint last night.

“Let’s do this, then,” Limey says, releasing Cas’s elbow.

They get out of the car and head toward the right of the mansion, circling around to the back because that’ll be less conspicuous than trying to kick down the front door. They know that someone will be home, after all—the Lafitte twins live with Alpha Worthington, and they’re both married. Cas doesn’t know whether or not anyone else lives in this place, but it’s certainly possible.

The nearest back door to them—because Cas isn’t deluding himself into thinking there’s only _one_ back entrance to this place—opens noiselessly when Limey finishes picking the lock, and they find themselves inside what looks like a—gym? It feels so random, out of place, but Cas doesn’t dwell on that for long, moving on to the door at the opposite end. It isn’t locked, and Limey quickens his step to go through it before Cas.

There’s no one in the wide foyer that they step into, and they slowly spread out in opposite directions, looking around warily. Cas peeks his head around the corner when he reaches it and sees a kitchen—empty, one wall made entirely of glass. Through it he can see a large garden. A large set of glass double-doors opens to the outside—that is probably the “official” back entrance to the place.

Cas turns back and sees Limey signaling for Cas to join him, so he crosses the space between them and sees that there’s a staircase around the corner to their left. Limey starts toward it, gesturing for Cas to stay and scope out the rest of the first floor. Cas nods, sparing only a moment to watch Limey ascend before turning the other way.

He finds a lounge, a dining room, and a room with just a pool table in it, which makes this all feel like he’s stuck in a game of _Clue_ , for fuck’s sake.

But before he can figure out whether or not this place has a _conservatory_ or some shit, he hears Limey—

“Cas, get out!”

Cas is already heading back toward the stairs when he hears a gunshot. After that, it seems as though all he can hear is his heart pounding in his ears, blood rushing to his head. He reaches the foot of the stairs and looks up, and he’s relieved to see that Limey’s standing on the second floor, only his torso visible from Cas’s perspective. Limey’s alive and uninjured, thank god.

Cas takes a deep breath, calms his nerves.

Limey has both hands up, unarmed. A gun is pointed right at his chest, held by a dark-haired woman that Cas has never seen before. Cas automatically lifts his own gun, pointing it up at her, but he’s got a bad vantage point, and it’d be way too easy for her to dodge a bullet if he really fired at her.

“It wasn’t wise to come here,” she says. “Did you really think you’d find what you were looking for here? Did you think we’d be that stupid?”

“What now, then? You gonna kill me?” Limey says, smug as always even though this woman has him at point blank range.

The woman cocks her gun, and Limey only smiles. Cas would be angry with his friend, but that bravado has worked in his favor enough times for him to stick with it—he can’t fault him for that. Still, Cas is relieved when the woman just jerks her chin toward the stairs, because it means Limey hasn’t provoked her into actually shooting him.

“Out,” she snaps. “Get out.”

Limey backs down the stairs slowly, and she comes down with him, gun trained on him all the time. Cas follows her motion with his own gun, moving a little to the side so that Limey won’t be in his line of fire. She’s unfazed by him, though, and Cas wonders which wife this is.

“You’re just gonna let us go?” Cas asks.

“I don’t kill people without good reason,” she replies primly. “Though I suppose breaking and entering like you did is grounds enough for a shot in the leg, at least.”

“Lies,” Limey protests, smirking. “We may have entered, but we broke nothing.”

“Don’t test my patience. You won’t like me when I lose my temper.”

She walks them right up to the front doors, and when the door has closed behind them, they head back toward their car. Cas glances behind them and catches the curtains twitching, no doubt because she’s watching to make sure they actually leave.

“Well,” Limey says as they approach the car. “That wasn’t what I expected.”

“Yeah, looks like you expected to get your chest pumped full o’ lead. What the hell were you thinking?” Cas demands.

Limey shrugs. “She talked like a killer, but she didn’t look like one.”

“Arrogant fucking idiot,” Cas grumbles as he gets into the passenger seat.

Limey just laughs as he settles into the driver’s seat, and Cas gets out his phone. Limey starts the car, pulling away from the curb, and Cas gives Raph a call—now that the Reapers have made their appearance, the ‘Nines might loosen their guard some, and maybe the Nomads will be able to find out where they’re keeping Dean and Claire.

* * *

Crowley’s men are at the ready, parked one street over from Alpha Worthington’s estate, ready to move in at his command. But Crowley hasn’t had them make a move because there’s been a car parked outside since his surveillance cameras were set up, and while he doesn’t recognize the car, he’s pretty sure that it belongs to the Reapers.

His suspicions are confirmed when the two men who get out of the car are none other than Cas Novak and Limey Moran. His liaison with the local police asks whether or not they should move in, but Crowley tells him to hold off, because it’s not good to be too overeager. Better to wait and see what happens.

Not long after the two bikers enter the mansion, there’s the sound of gunfire, only one shot. Still Crowley decides not to call in his men. If a real fight were going on, they’d be hearing far more than a single gunshot.

Soon after, the Reapers emerge, unscathed.

“Should we move in _now?_ ”

Crowley shakes his head, thoughtful. “No. I want you to stay here and continue to monitor the activity at the Worthington estate,” he responds before getting out of the van. He walks down the street to his sedan and gets in the back seat, telling his driver to catch up with Limey and Cas’s car.

It’ll be easier for Crowley to let the Reapers do the heavy lifting—Crowley has heard plenty about what this club is capable of, and he’s certain that they’ll be able to find Dean and Claire more efficiently than Crowley’s men can. It would be ideal if Crowley could swoop in at the last second and take the girl from them—Dean he doesn’t care much about because his ties to the club have essentially been severed. And besides, Sam has a one-track mind. With Dean captured, all he’ll be capable of doing is worrying, which would render him useless to Crowley.

Yes, it’d be better to hold Claire for a time and let Dean go free, Crowley decides. Now all that remains is actually _finding_ them.

* * *

As soon as the Reapers’ car has driven away down the street, Andrea wanders into the kitchen, pulling her cell phone out of her back pocket and setting her gun down on the nearest countertop.

“They already made their first try at breaking in,” she says when Alpha picks up.

“Earlier than I’d expected,” Alpha muses. In the background, Andrea hears Benny’s voice, indistinct, and then Alpha says, “Your husband would like to speak with you.”

Before Andrea can even ask for Alpha to put him on, Benny says, “You all right?”

“I’m okay,” Andrea says, unable to suppress the fondness that swells in her chest and makes her lips curve into a smile. “I know how to handle myself. Eli and Lenore are perfectly safe. The Reapers didn’t even make it to the right hallway before I headed them off.”

“You did good,” Benny says.

“As if I need you to tell me that,” Andrea responds affectionately.

“Alpha says they’re not likely to try again for a couple of hours at least, so you can relax a little, if you want,” Benny says.

“Better not,” Andrea says. “There were only two of them that came into the house—who knows how many more haven’t shown their faces yet?”

“You have a point,” Benny says. After a pause, he adds, solemnly, “Be careful.”

“Of course. You, too.”

* * *

“Shit,” Dean mutters, only realizing that he spoke the word aloud when Claire’s head whips in his direction, eyes questioning. “Don’t worry,” he says to her, shaking his head.

She looks suspicious but says nothing.

But really, _shit_. Shit, _Sam_.

Dean doesn’t know how he managed to forget that he’d agreed to meet up with Sam—and Victor, for that matter—last night, to talk to them. Jo, too. They must have been worried as all hell when he didn’t show up. He’s almost certain they would have gone to check at his house, which—the Reapers won’t still be there. Dean knows them well enough to know that they wouldn’t linger around a place where a kidnapping only _just_ took place.

Dean has no doubts that the Reapers have sent people out to Oakland to look for them—and he knows now that he is in Oakland, because the man in charge introduced himself as _Alpha_ , and the only “Alpha” Dean has ever heard about is Alpha Worthington, of the Oakland ‘Nines. Now, though, he worries that Sam might be here too, looking for him.

Damn it, he should have just gone out somewhere with Sam in the afternoon and talked to him then. But it would’ve looked suspicious to Luce if he’d just left the house like that. Luce is paranoid as fuck when it comes to the safety of club members, and since the patch on his breast reads “Sergeant at Arms,” it makes sense that he’d take the president and VP’s lives as his personal responsibility.

Still, Dean wishes he’d taken the time to settle Sam’s concerns and send him back to Stockton earlier yesterday. The less Sam comes into contact with the Reapers, the better.

But it’s useless to dwell on the past when Dean’s still got the present to worry about. Namely, he’s gotta think his way out of this. At least he knows where he is and who’s got him—that’s a start. He’s got no clue what kind of beef the ‘Nines might have with the Reapers, but he suspects that this has to do with Cas showing up at Dean’s house with a bullet in his shoulder.

Well, whatever happens, Dean knows that the man—or men—guarding them will be focusing mostly on Dean, so Claire has a chance of getting away. If Dean makes the right distraction, he’s sure that Claire is clever enough to get out of here. After that, it would just be a matter of her finding her way to a phone to make a call to Cas—if the club still raises kids like it used to, Claire should have her parents’ phone numbers memorized, at the very least, if not Cas’s.

“Claire?” Dean says, and she looks up at him attentively. “I have an idea to get you out of here. I’m gonna create a distraction, and I want you to make a run for it, all right? And once you’re out, you’re gonna find the nearest gas station, or grocery store—or hell, just any grown-up. Ask to use their cell phone, and call your Uncle Cas. He’ll come get you.”

Claire only gives Dean an unimpressed look. “You’re stupid if you think I’m going to run away from here without you.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, surprised. “You barely even know who I am, kiddo,” he says.

Claire rolls her eyes. “Uncle Cas loves me,” she declares, and it seems like a non sequitur until she follows it up with, “He wouldn’t let just anyone come to pick me up, and I’ve never seen or even _heard_ of you, before.” Dean is still trying to come up with a response to that when Claire squints at him and asks, “Are you Uncle Cas’s secret boyfriend?”

A disbelieving laugh bursts out of Dean’s mouth before he can think to stop it, but he figures laughing is better than any other reaction that stirs in his chest at Claire’s suggestion.

God, he fucking _wishes_.

“I was friends with your Uncle Cas when we were growing up, but that was a long time ago,” he tells her.

Claire frowns. “But you must still be friends, if Uncle Cas trusts you,” she points out.

Dean shifts his bound hands, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the ring there, and remembers how Cas had told Dean when they were growing up that someday those rings on his daddy’s big hand would be his, remembers him worrying because he didn’t want to _rule_ the club, even though that was what the rings meant—or so they thought. He remembers making that dumb pact, that Cas would pass the RE on to Dean and keep the AP, so that Dean could be president and Cas could be his VP.

God, Dean can’t even remember how old they’d been when they decided on that. They’d been so small. He knows it was years before Dad died, when he and Cas were still small enough to be bounced up and down in their fathers’ laps without complaining that they weren’t babies anymore.

Does Cas remember? He mustn’t, or else he’d never have given that ring to Dean. Not after Dean left him like that.

Dean blinks, pulling out of his reverie, and notices that Claire is watching him with concern.

When she realizes that he’s paying attention again, she says, “Don’t worry. Uncle Cas will come for us.”

Dean manages a smile. “You’re that sure, huh?”

“I’m _positive_.”

* * *

The station is mostly empty when Rufus comes in, only Nancy sitting at her desk dutifully. She smiles up at him as he passes, and he nods in acknowledgement. The door to Victor’s office is slightly ajar, so Rufus goes inside to check on him.

The man is slumped over his desk, knocked out, and Rufus holds back a sigh. Moving through the room quietly, he takes Victor’s jacket off the back of his chair and carefully drapes it over his shoulders. He lingers just a moment longer before leaving the room, shutting the door gently behind him.

“Did anything come up after I left yesterday?” Rufus asks Nancy as he walks toward his own office.

“Mm, well last night Victor came in asking specifically about any calls regarding kidnappings,” Nancy says—she works the phones at the station. “He didn’t give me any details, but he seemed pretty worried about it.”

“Thanks,” Rufus says, stepping into his office and pushing the door closed.

He checks his desk phone for messages, more out of habit than anything else—people seldom call him at his office number. As expected, there aren’t any messages.

A kidnapping in Morada. That hasn’t happened in years, and with all the shit that’s been happening lately—Jimmy getting hit by a car, an ATF agent rolling into town, Reapers getting involved in a shooting—all Rufus can think is that this will have something to do with the Reapers, too.

He gives Naomi a call, but she doesn’t pick up. After a second try, Rufus decides he’d better go out and see her in person. It’s unlike her to ignore his calls.

On his way out, he tells Nancy to give him a call if Victor goes anywhere.

“Will do,” Nancy says with a small smile that doesn’t do much to mask her worry. But she doesn’t ask questions—no one in this station asks questions. He likes to think it’s because they understand the town as well as he does, understands the necessity of his relation to the club, but he doesn’t know whether or not that’s just wishful thinking.

It doesn’t matter either way, though. What they think won’t change the fact that everything he does, he does for the good of Morada.

* * *

Naomi wakes up groggily, slowly, and finds herself in a bed, which is unexpected. She doesn’t remember going to bed last night. She doesn’t remember driving home either, though, and when she turns, her arm comes into contact with someone who is a lot softer in the chest area than Jules is.

Oh. Breasts.

She finally opens her eyes and sees Ellen lying next to her, sound asleep.

Groaning, Naomi turns the other way. Her head hurts, and she’s grateful that the curtains over the windows are drawn shut, because she is certain her head would be pounding if light were streaming into the room right now.

The boys must have carried her and Ellen into the room after they knocked out at the bar. God, Naomi can’t even remember the last time she drank herself into oblivion like this.

There’s a knocking sound, followed by, “Naomi?”

She lifts her head off the pillow to look over at the door. Since Ellen is still dead to the world, Naomi sighs and gets out of bed to answer it. She finds Rufus standing on the other side, looking like he’s trying—and failing miserably—to hide his concern.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

“Oh. I had a bit much to drink last night, fell asleep. I don’t think my phone is even _on_ me right now,” Naomi responds, patting her pockets even though she can feel that her phone obviously isn’t there. Just as she finishes speaking, a phone goes off, but the ringtone is unfamiliar—it’s probably Ellen’s.

“Whuh,” Ellen mumbles, half-asleep, fumbling around on the nightstand to find her phone.

“Let’s go outside,” Naomi says, and Rufus leads the way back to the main room. By the time they’ve sat down on the couches out there, Naomi’s mind has cleared a little, and she says, “You _really_ need to keep your deputy on a tighter leash.”

Rufus nods. “I would if I could, but I can’t always be around. I was in the hospital all day yesterday.”

That doesn’t sound good. “Has it gotten worse?” she asks.

“Eh,” Rufus says with a shrug. “I don’t think it can get much worse anyway, Naomi.”

Naomi waits a moment before asking, “How much time have you got left?”

“I’ve got a while yet,” Rufus replies. “Those doctors can’t decide how long I’ve got left—I’ll die when I’m damn ready, and not a day before.”

“Oh, Rufus…” Naomi says, reaching out and rubbing his back, between his shoulder blades. She and Rufus have been friends for decades, and it’s strange to imagine Morada without him.

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep a closer eye on Victor for you,” Rufus says.

“I appreciate it,” Naomi replies, “but that’s actually secondary. Claire has been kidnapped, and there is nothing more important than finding her and getting her back.”

“Well, shit,” Rufus breathes. “I’m assuming you know who took her, at least.”

“Bloody ‘Nines, Oakland,” Naomi says.

“That’s a start,” Rufus says with a nod. “You got the local police in on this, or did you just send some of the guys that way?”

“We’re not involving the police,” Naomi answers.

“I respect that,” Rufus says. Before he can go on, his phone rings, and he glances at Naomi, waiting until she nods before answering the call with, “Yes, Nancy?” Naomi cannot hear the response, but whatever it is, Rufus replies, “So I did. Thanks, Nancy.” With that, he hangs up. He doesn’t even hesitate before turning to Naomi and saying, “Victor just left the police station. I can go check his normal patrol routes, but I doubt he’ll be there, because he doesn’t even have regular hours posted for this patrol time.”

“Don’t waste your time,” Naomi says. “We may as well head him off on the road out toward Oakland.”

“We?” Rufus repeats, one eyebrow raised, but Naomi is getting to her feet already,

“Yes, ‘we,’” she affirms, heading toward the front doors of the bar. Rufus tails her outside and goes to unlock the doors of his squad car so that she can get in.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come with me,” Rufus says.

“Shut up and drive.”

Rufus starts the car without argument, and they do a U-turn in the lot before driving out onto the street. Naomi hears the bikes before she sees them, and sure enough, they turn the corner and come down the street in the opposite direction, four bikes carrying six riders.

Right, this morning was a drop-off, so they would have left the van with the Amazons.

Before Rufus can ask, Naomi says, “Just keep driving.” She’s satisfied when he keeps his silence, eyes fixed on the road.

* * *

Sam is about to hang up and try again when Ellen answers the phone.

“Who is this?” she asks, words slurred, probably with sleep.

“Uh, it’s Sam. You were gonna get some answers for me.”

“Oh,” Ellen says. “Yes, the Reapers were telling the truth. The ‘Nines have Claire and Dean.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “And you’re sure they wouldn’t lie to you, right?”

“I’m sure. Now I’m gonna go back to bed.”

“Right. Get some rest,” Sam says, but the line disconnects before he’s even finished speaking.

He doesn’t remember Ellen ever being that grumpy in the morning, but then again, it’s been years since he lived in her house. It’s entirely plausible that she’s changed.

But Sam doesn’t dwell on this for long, because Dean’s still missing, and now he has confirmation on where he is. So he calls Victor and has to wait three rings before he picks up.

“Yeah,” he says, a little slowly.

“Dean and Claire were taken by the ‘Nines,” Sam says. “I just got confirmation.”

“Okay,” Victor says, and he sounds a hundred percent alert already. “Just stay where you are—I’ll come and get you.”

“I can do that,” Sam says.

Victor hangs up, and Sam pockets his phone before going over to wait by the front door.

* * *

Victor has only just gotten onto the highway when a siren goes off behind him. A quick glance in the rearview mirror tells him that Chief Turner is driving behind him, lights flashing. Fuck.

He decelerates and pulls over to the shoulder, annoyed, and gets out of his car, walking back toward the chief’s car. He’s not even surprised to see Naomi getting out of the passenger side—well, maybe he’s a _little_ bit surprised, seeing as Turner has been denying involvement with the club like it’s the only thing he knows how to do.

There’s a biker, too, Gabriel Spate, but Victor doesn’t spare him any attention, because damn it, he has a person to find.

“I have a lead on Dean,” Victor says.

“Stay out of it,” Naomi says, predictably.

“I’m only doing my job.”

“Oakland is way out of our jurisdiction,” Turner says, and fuck it, if that were really what was bothering him, Victor would go home and change out of his uniform to go look for Dean, but he doesn’t think that’s the real reason why. Hell, he _knows_ it isn’t the real reason why. Sure enough, the old man continues, “This isn’t something that the police should be getting into. It’s a matter between clubs, and the clubs will take care of it.”

Victor can hardly believe his ears. “Are you _joking?_ Who the hell _are_ you?”

“He is the man who was working to keep Morada safe when you were still in diapers,” Naomi says, surprisingly angry. “It wouldn’t kill you to show the man some goddamn respect.”

“We’re law enforcement officers,” Victor bites out. “Our job is to uphold the law, not to let some biker gang flout the law and do whatever the fuck they want to.”

“Oh, you think we _want_ this?” Naomi says with an incredulous laugh. “My _granddaughter_ is out there! I really don’t think you can possibly be more worried about Dean than I am about Claire, so you can shut your fucking mouth and let us handle this. We know what we’re dealing with. You don’t.”

Victor doesn’t know how to respond to that—he still completely believes that he needs to go to Oakland, needs to try and find his friend, but as much as he hates to admit it, Naomi’s right. He _doesn’t_ know what he would be dealing with once he got to Oakland. He’s got barely any background knowledge at all on the ‘Nines, doesn’t even know what they all look like. Sure, he’d go to the local police station, but what would he even tell them? That he heard from some inside source that his friend had been kidnapped by an Oakland gang?

“Stay here in Morada,” Turner says.

“You can’t stop me from going,” Victor says reflexively.

“Actually, I can. I’m still Chief of Police, and that means you still have to take my orders. And right now, I’m ordering you to stand down and get back to the station.”

Victor considers getting into his car and just gunning it down the highway. He doubts Turner would chase him for long, anyway. What would they be able to do to stop him?

“Do you understand me?” Turner says, glaring at him.

“Loud and clear, sir,” Victor says, clenching his jaw.

No, he’ll have to rethink this, maybe talk to Sam about it. He’d originally planned to go out to Oakland without Sam to spare him the danger, but it looks like he’s gonna need some help.

* * *

As soon as Julian parks his bike and gets off it, he heads toward the garage, where Gabe is sure to be.  
“Gabe!” he calls out, and sees the man’s head pop up over the hood of a car.

“Yeah, Pres?”

“Ride out, catch up to Rufus and Naomi,” Julian says.

Gabe stops what he’s doing immediately, wiping his hands on a rag as he starts leaving the garage. He tosses the cloth behind him as he heads toward his bike, and Bacon is there to catch it for him. Julian watches him leave the lot before going toward the clubhouse—he didn’t like the look of Rufus and Naomi heading out like that, without even saying anything first.

Upon stepping inside, Julian finds everyone lounging by the bar, waiting for him. Ellen is up too, making herself a cup of coffee, and she smiles when she catches Julian watching her.

“Thanks for not kicking me to the curb, last night,” she says.

“What’re you thanking him for? I’m the one who had to haul you into the room,” Luce says.

“Well, you didn’t do out of the goodness of your own heart, and we both know it,” Ellen responds easily.

She seems surprisingly chipper for someone who must be suffering at least a mild hangover, but Julian notes a slight tightness around her eyes, a look that she tends to get when she’s putting on a show. He only knows this because he’s seen her around Naomi, knows what she looks like when she’s not on the defensive. Right now, she’s uneasy.

Julian dislikes that it has come to this, dislikes that his family has splintered so badly.

But he supposes it was always going to happen, what with the sacrifices that Bill made and continues to make for them. It was only a matter of time before Ellen grew to resent the club and all that it had taken from her—gratitude for saving her child’s life and her own could only go so far.

There have been a great many sacrifices made for this club, some greater than others. Julian has made his fair share of difficult calls, and he won’t delude himself or anyone else with vows that he will not call upon them anymore. When the time comes and he needs Bill’s assistance, he will not hesitate to ask.

“You can all disperse,” Julian says to the members of his club that are present. “We’ll gather again if there’s any news from Oakland, or from Gabe.”

Bobby doesn’t move an inch, but Alf and the Milton brothers get to their feet, heading for the door. Luce hesitates a moment, sending a questioning look Julian’s way, so Julian nods to release him. He really is the best man for his job, completely committed to keeping Julian safe.

As the others leave the room, Julian goes to join Bobby and Ellen at the bar. It’ll be nice to catch up, now that Naomi isn’t here and Ellen has no choice but to talk to Julian.

Perhaps this bridge can still be mended.

* * *

David hates his job.

Well, that’s not exactly accurate. David hates _this_ job, in particular. His normal job is fine, but this assignment is shit. It’s stretched on for far longer than he’d ever guessed, and what was supposed to be an undercover assignment lasting a couple months has now gone into its second year. He’s only just clawed his way into the inner circle, put enough enemies into the hospital to get Dick Roman’s trust and respect.

But he’s still not Dick’s number one, because no one can take Edgar’s place. As long as Edgar is still around, it’s gonna be hard as fuck for him to get access to Dick’s plans—he supposedly shares them with the club freely, but David knows better.

The decision to drive the Reapers out and take Morada for themselves had seemingly come out of nowhere, but Dick had obviously spent time planning, devising tactics, because when he brought it to the table, he already had allies and a plan of attack.

That whole cartel deal had gone down pretty much the same way. Morris had been stoked when David first told him about the Leviathans muling drugs for the cartel, but in the months since, he’s gotten disappointed, because David hasn’t been able to give him any usable information about it. David almost got caught trying to steal a sample, and he’s made sure to stay away from any funny business since. Dick seems to have believed him, but he’s only free to believe David because he knows that Joe will keep an eye on him.

David comes to a stop behind Edgar and waits until Dick and Edgar get off their bikes before getting off his own. He’s a little surprised that Edgar actually took his bike out here today, seeing as he’s been chauffeured everywhere ever since he became a city council member.

Looking around, David tries to suppress the annoyance he feels at these sorts of meets. All these turnouts from the highway look pretty much the same, making it almost impossible to call for backup and have them find the right place in time.

 Two sedans pull up, and eight men get out.

David hasn’t had any contact with the ‘Nines since he went undercover, but he does recognize Alpha Worthington—his face was posted on a wall that David used to walk by every day back at the Bureau.

“Good morning, Mr. Roman,” Alpha says, walking over with his hand extended.

“Please,” Dick says, shaking his hand, “call me Dick.”

Alpha nods. “Welcome to Oakland, Dick.”

“Pardon my asking, but where are your sons today? I was almost certain at least one of them would be here,” Dick says.

“I sent them on a few other errands,” Alpha answers. “You have no need to worry about them.”

“All right, then.” After a pause, Dick says, “So, I’d like to come to an agreement with you.”

“Yes; we’d both benefit from that.”

“We want the Reapers out of Morada,” Dick says. “We have no quarrel with the Campbells, but we don’t like them either, so I’d be willing to drive them out of Lodi so that you could come in. If we took them out entirely, you’d even be able to expand into Morada—after the Reapers were eliminated.”

“Ambitious,” Alpha comments.

“But doable, with our combined forces.”

That would be pretty damn interesting. Morris is gonna go ballistic when he hears that the situation is about to change so drastically. David doesn’t care much for any of these outlawed groups, but he knows that his boss has a soft spot for the Reapers. He used to say something about them being “noble” criminals, which, as far as David is concerned, is a goddamn oxymoron _and_ completely untrue.

“We would be amenable to that,” Alpha says. “Would you like to discuss strategy now, or would you prefer to wait?”

“Now is perfect,” Dick says, and though David can’t see his face, he can hear his smile. Dick has a smile like a shark that’s just caught the scent of fresh blood—it’s unnerving. “I think it’s best if we take out the Reapers first, because then we’ll have Morada. It’ll be easy as cake to take out the Campbell family after we’ve gained control over Morada.”

“But the Reapers will be more difficult to eliminate,” Alpha says. “If you thought they could be so easily defeated, you would have made a move years ago.”

“That’s why we have this alliance,” Dick responds.

“I agree that with our forces combined, the Reapers should have little chance to resist us. But the fact of the matter is that my men, strong as they are, are based in Oakland. The Campbells will be an obstacle to our move into Lodi, so we should remove them first. Once the competition has been crushed, we’ll be able to move in and better assist you on your crusade into Morada.”

“Some of your men could stay with us as a temporary measure,” Edgar suggests, but Alpha shakes his head, lifting a hand to stop Edgar from going on.

“My men will not stay in borrowed space, no matter how temporary. Not while we have a base available to us,” he says. Turning back to Dick, he says, “Either way, the Campbell family and Reapers MC will be driven out or destroyed—it’s only a matter of time.”

“All right, then. Campbells first,” Dick says, and David is surprised to see him giving ground so easily. He must be pretty wary of Alpha. “I’ll see to locking them out of Lodi.”

Alpha just smiles, and David can only think that his smile can apparently make a shark turn around and swim the other way.

* * *

“Yo! Anyone out there? It’s been hours! We gotta go to the bathroom!” Dean calls out.

The man who drove them here opens the bedroom door and says, “Sorry—musta slipped my mind. Little girl—”

“I am _not_ little,” Claire says, struggling to her feet because her hands are still bound behind her back.

“Okay, then. Come on out,” the man says. Dean doesn’t even bother getting up, because it’s not likely that the guy would let him and Claire out of the room at the same time. Sure enough, he says to Dean, “I’ll be back for you,” and shuts the door behind himself and Claire.

They come back quickly, and then it’s Dean’s turn to be led out of the room. He sends Claire a reassuring look, and she just watches him solemnly.

In the bathroom, the man unties Dean’s hands and says, “I’ve got a gun. You try anything, and you’re gonna get shot. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m not an imbecile,” Dean says.

The man backs out of the room, and Dean takes a leak. He turns on the sink afterwards and rinses his hands off quickly. Leaving the sink running, Dean grabs the hand towel from its rack and wraps it around his left hand, looking up at the mirror in front of him.

He and Cas used to talk about how they’d deal with life-threatening situations, used to spend hours making up scenarios just to try and stump each other.

Hostage situations were probably the first ones that they got down pat, and with those thoughts in mind, Dean takes in his surroundings. The layout of this bathroom is perfect for attacking an incoming assailant—the shower is set into the side wall rather than the far one, so when the door swings open, anyone who steps inside is within striking range of someone standing inside the shower.

So he’s got a plan. All he needs is a weapon, and he’s good to go. The mirror will do just fine.

Dean can’t help but hesitate, though. Back then, it was all theoretical. Now, he’s actually going to act on this idea, and it’s a little difficult to draw on the nerve to do it.

Clenching his jaw, Dean pulls his wrapped-up fist back and punches the mirror, shattering it. The sound isn’t too loud, but it’s still audible over the still-running sink, so Dean quickly selects one of the biggest shards and dashes over to wait in the shower.

“Thought you said you weren’t an imbecile!” he hears the man call from outside.

Dean just waits quietly, clutching the piece of broken glass, careful not to squeeze too hard so that he won’t cut his own hand.

In the silence that follows, Dean faintly hears the kidnapper cursing under his breath.

The man throws the door open rapidly, and Dean waits for him to take a step into the room before lunging out of the shower with the fragment of glass. The guy has good reflexes and backpedals immediately, but he’s not fast enough—Dean still slashes him across the chest, drawing blood.

Dean takes advantage of the man’s moment of disorientation to knock the gun out of his hand, but then he’s getting shoved backwards, farther into the bathroom. Dean snatches the man’s wrist to keep him from getting to the gun, and they end up moving into the hallway, grappling with each other, arms locked together because Dean had tried swiping at the gangster with the bloody piece of glass and had his hand caught before he could do any more damage

Dean throws all of his weight forward, banging the man into the wall behind him, and gets out, “I saved one of your men. I didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, and for that, you have my gratitude,” the man answers, shoving hard and disentangling himself.

Dean’s back hits the opposite wall, but he slips to the side quickly, the glass still in his grip. It’s practically embedded in the skin of his palm right now, blood hot and sticky in his hand.

The man draws his own blade and says, “I can’t let you go, Dean.”

“Goddamn it, I’m a doctor,” Dean says. “Don’t—don’t make me kill you.”

“You say that like you can,” the man replies, and tosses his own knife away.

Uncomprehending, Dean charges forward anyway, because he needs to get out of here. He needs to get _Claire_ out of here.

Dean was trained as a kid by members of the club, trained to fight both defensively and offensively, but it’s been years since he had any kind of practical use for combat, and it becomes abundantly clear just how rusty he is when his opponent catches his right wrist and twists, _hard_ , making Dean cry out and drop his weapon. When his hand opens, more blood flows from the cuts in his palm and fingers, and he can’t help but hiss.

He tries punching with his free arm, but the kidnapper takes the blow to his cheek like it’s nothing—talk about a high pain threshold—and just grabs Dean’s arm, hooks a foot behind his calves to trip him, and then Dean’s crashing into the ground, back first.

Winded, Dean can only gasp for breath as the gangster pins him down and draws another gun—just how many weapons do these people _carry_ on them?

The man practically sits on his chest, gun pressed to Dean’s temple, and just—stays there, the both of them just staring at each other as they catch their breath.

Finally, Dean shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders a little, because what now? If he’s got the layout of this house down right, even if Claire got out of the bedroom now, she’d have to pass through the hallway that they’re blocking. So Claire’s not going anywhere, and Dean’s not going anywhere either—not unless he wants his brains splattered all over the carpet underneath him.

Blood drips down onto Dean’s shirt, and his eyes slip down to land on the gash that he inflicted.

Jesus, Dean doesn’t—it isn’t _in_ him to rough people up, not like it was when he was a kid. He’s pretty sure that part of himself died when he left the club.

He looks back up and is surprised to see the man above him _wavering_ , eyes flicking back and forth between Dean’s. The gun abruptly lifts away, and the man backs off, gets to his feet, and bends over a little, offering his left hand.

Dean accepts it hesitantly, letting his captor pull him to his feet. “What are you doing?” he can’t resist asking—sure, he knows what people say about gift horses, but he needs to know.

“Grab the girl,” the man says, pressing a key into Dean’s left hand—considerate, seeing as Dean’s right hand is covered in blood—and turning away. “I’ll get the car.”

Right. They gotta get outta here first, and _then_ Dean can ask his questions.

He hurries down the hall to the room where they were being held and sticks the key in the lock. Claire is already standing when he opens the door, and she runs over to him, looking relieved.

“C’mon, hurry,” Dean says as he reaches behind her to undo the rope tying her hands together. “We gotta go.”

“Did you kill him?” Claire asks, surprisingly calm about the possibility.

“No. He’s uh, he’s helping us,” Dean says, ushering Claire down the hall and toward the front door.

He feels like his heart is pounding harder right now than it was when he was psyching himself up in the bathroom, feels like any minute now, Alpha Worthington is gonna burst in here with half a dozen gunmen and just mow them down.

They make it out the door without incident, though, and the van from before is parked on the driveway, waiting for them. Dean gets into the back with Claire, doing his best to keep his bloody hand away from her, but she grabs onto it and turns it so the palm faces up, looking concerned.

“It’s fine,” Dean says. To the man up front, he asks, “You sure you’re okay driving? You’re still kinda bleeding there.”

“I’ve driven in worse conditions,” the man replies as he pulls out of the driveway and starts down the street. “Your cell phone’s in the glove compartment up here, if you wanna grab it.”

Claire gets up before Dean can, steady despite the car’s movement, and half-crawls into the front seat to reach. “I’ll call Uncle Cas,” she says as she sits back down on the floor of the van, and Dean nods.

Directing his attention back to the ‘Nine sitting up front, Dean asks, “Why are you doing this?”

“The man whose life you saved? You couldn’t see his face ‘cause he had a mask on, but that was my twin,” he says, and Dean’s thoughts stutter to a halt.

A set of twins, from the Bloody ‘Nines. This is one of the Lafitte twins, holy _shit_. No wonder Dean didn’t have a chance of taking him down in a straight fight. He first heard of them when he was maybe ten years old, when they were still only teenagers themselves—they’re just a couple years older than him, after all. They were notoriously deadly even then, and Dean figures he should have expected that the Lafitte twins were involved when Alpha Worthington himself came to pay them a visit, but… well, it wasn’t exactly a priority.

“So which are you, Benny or Eli?” Dean asks.

“You know who we are,” the Lafitte twin says, surprised.

“Well, yeah. You guys kinda made a name for yourselves.”

“I assumed that was after you’d already left the club,” he says. “I’m Benny.”

“How do you know so much about me?”

Before Benny can answer, Claire says, “Uncle Cas? I’m safe—well. Sorta safe?” Her eyes flick up to Dean as she finishes speaking, and Dean holds his hand out for the phone.

“—where you are,” Cas is saying when Dean puts the phone to his ear. “I’ll come get you. Don’t—”

“Cas,” Dean says, “we’re in a van, right now. We need a place to meet up.”

“There’s a storage place in Alameda, on Clement Avenue,” Benny says. “I’m not gonna risk leaving town, not when the guys could be going back to the safe house soon.”

Cas is in the middle of saying something so Dean interrupts, “Hey, hey. Can you guys find a storage place? Uh, it’s on Clement Avenue, in—”

“Alameda.”

“—Alameda,” Dean repeats. “We’ll be there in…?”

“Ten minutes,” Benny supplies, and Dean relays that information to Cas.

“All right,” Cas says. “And you and Claire are all right?”

“We’re fine,” Dean says.

“See you soon,” Cas says, low and firm, and relieved too, Dean thinks.

The call disconnects, and Dean puts the phone back in his pocket.

“What’re you gonna tell the ‘Nines?” Dean asks.

“Well, you already helped me out with that,” Benny says, jerking his chin down toward his own chest briefly. There’s a pause, and then Benny says, “Sorry, Dean.”

“What for?”

Benny huffs humorlessly. “Ain’t gonna be any peace for you after we decide that you’re dangerous.”

* * *

An unmarked white van pulls into the storage lot, empty but for Cas and Limey’s car, and Cas straightens from where he was leaning on the passenger side door. One of the fucking _Lafitte_ twins is driving, and Cas immediately draws his gun. Limey’s already pointing his gun at the van.

But one of the side doors slides open, and Claire hops out, bounding toward Cas. Dean steps out right after, and Cas is almost overwhelmed by the relief that wells up in his chest as Claire barrels into him, thin arms wrapping around his waist. Neither of them is missing limbs, and they’re both clearly capable of walking, which is better than Cas had been imagining.

A gun goes off, and Cas’s head jerks up, eyes finding a bullet hole in the side door of the van.

Damn it, Limey.

The engine hadn’t even cut earlier, so the Lafitte twin just stomps on the gas, turning the van around to go back out of the parking lot. Thankfully, the Nomads know what they’re doing and drive across the exit, blocking the way out.

“Get out of the car!” Limey barks, because apparently he’s planning on taking retribution right now.

“Hey, hold on a minute,” Dean says, stopped halfway on the way over to Cas.

The Lafitte twin gets out of the car, seemingly unarmed, and Cas is surprised to see blood all down the front of his shirt.

“Hold on for what?” Limey says. “They took you.”

“Benny let us go,” Dean says.

“Why the hell would he do that?” Cas asks.

“‘Cause I saved his twin,” Dean answers.

It takes a second for Cas to react to that. “Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking _kidding_ me! You’re telling me that I shot that fucker, and you _saved his life?_ ”

“Yes,” Dean says, and the most infuriating thing about this isn’t even that Eli Lafitte managed to dodge a bullet without fucking dodging a bullet. No, the most infuriating thing is that Dean doesn’t look repentant at all about saving the enemy, and Cas can’t even bring himself to be _mad_ at him.

“Cas,” Limey says, pulling Cas out of his thoughts, and right—Limey’s gotta wait for his call.

“He _did_ let us go,” Claire says, arms still around Cas’s waist. “We gotta be fair.”

Cas nods, looking down at his niece. “Let him go,” he says to Limey.

Limey seems disappointed—after all, this _is_ a rare opportunity, catching a Lafitte twin injured and alone. But Limey steps to the side, enough so that the Nomads will be able to see him past the van, and signals for them to move their car.

“Thank you,” Benny says, and when Cas looks over, he sees that the words are directed at him.

“Thank _you_ ,” Cas returns, resting his left hand on Claire’s back—the gun still hangs loosely in his right.

Benny gets back into the van and drives away, and Cas lets out a sigh, half relieved and half disappointed.

Then he realizes that Dean has stopped just a few feet away from him, and his mouth goes dry. He’s suddenly grateful that his hands are full, because for a few seconds there, he had had the urge to haul Dean in and _kiss_ him.

What the fuck?

Cas isn’t gay. He’s never been inclined toward men before, hasn’t ever even _considered_ it before. It’s certainly not a brother thing either, because Cas has gotten Jimmy and Limey back from life-threatening situations before, and he has never once wanted to suck face with them. Jesus Christ.

Trying his best to shake it off, he turns toward the car, but as he turns his eyes catch on Dean’s right hand, covered in blood.

“Shit, what happened to your hand?” Cas asks.

“Nothing,” Dean says, but Claire backs away from Cas to let him get at Dean’s hand.

“Get in the car, guys,” Limey says. “You can play nurse in the back seat.”

Cas shoots his friend an unamused look before opening the front door for Claire. “You gonna be good up front? We don’t have your car seat with us.”

“I’m fine,” Claire says, getting into the car.

Limey waves Cas’s hands away and goes to buckle her seatbelt for her, so Cas closes the door and gets into the back behind Claire’s seat—Dean has already gotten in on the other side of the car.

“You got a kit in the trunk?” Cas asks without looking at Limey.

“Think so, yeah,” Limey replies, so Cas gets back out of the car for a sec to grab it.

Five minutes later, they’re on the road, heading back toward Morada. Dean’s done explaining how they got out, and Cas has just finished cleaning the cuts on his hand. He applies the bandages to Dean’s hand slowly, careful to keep his motions as steady as possible, since the car is moving.

When the bandages are secure, Cas closes the kit and looks up in time to see Dean’s eyes on him, something unfamiliar in his gaze. Cas looks away quickly, unsure what he’ll do if he lingers too long.

Fucking Dean. Dean has always been… _other_. Figures that he’d still be able to get under Cas’s skin, to make Cas question himself, even after all this time.

* * *

Abaddon shows up early to the meeting that she’d scheduled with Azazel.

Of fucking _course_ she showed up early. Lilith should have expected that, knowing her as well as she does—she should’ve gotten the fuck out of here twenty minutes early. But she hates making it look like she’s avoiding Abaddon, because it makes it look too much like she’s _scared_ of her, which she isn’t. The only things Lilith feels for Abaddon are loathing and disdain.

Now Abaddon is seated in one of the loveseats to the side of the fireplace, and Azazel has the one directly facing the fireplace, leaving Lilith to take the chair across from Abaddon.

“Dear sister, you can still leave, if you’d like,” Abaddon says.

As if Lilith would ever give her the satisfaction. “No, I thought I’d stay for this meeting,” she responds.

“What a surprise,” Abaddon says, smiling, and even after all these years, that smile hasn’t changed one bit—it’s still the exact same smile she had when they were growing up, the one that got her all of Dad’s love.

To this day, Lilith still can’t decide who she’s angrier with—Abaddon for stealing her father from her, or Dad himself, for making it so easy.

Lilith had only been eleven years old when the previous leader of the Demons, Timothy Williamson, better known as Cain, found an infant on his doorstep and decided to keep her. But Lilith was just a kid. She hadn’t wanted to help her single father take care of a baby, and she’d resented Abaddon—or Alaina, at the time—for becoming the center of Dad’s attention. Yet the meaner she was to Alaina, the more Dad loved her.

Even now, after Lilith has inherited his empire and spent years expanding it, Cain _still_ likes Abaddon better. But he’s an old man now, senile, and Lilith doesn’t _have_ to care about his feelings anymore.

“You said something important was happening,” Azazel says to Abaddon. “What is it?”

“We met with the Reapers this morning,” Abaddon says. “There’s been a new development: the ‘Nines have taken Claire Novak, Jules’s granddaughter.”

“Ooh. Not a good move, on their part,” Azazel comments. “That makes it personal.”

Abaddon nods. “We can be safe in assuming that the Reapers will not be aiding the ‘Nines in Lodi, so the ‘Nines’ next move will be to approach Dick Roman with an offer—if they haven’t already. Once that happens, the ‘Nines and Campbells will be at each other’s necks in Lodi.”

“We should go to Lodi, then,” Lilith says to Azazel. “With them all in one place, we’d be able to take them out at once.”

“Or you could hold off, stand your ground here in Stockton until one group has emerged victorious,” Abaddon says. “Whoever wins will no doubt be weak after the fight—it’d be an opportune time for you to swoop in.”

Lilith looks at Abaddon skeptically. “So what you want us to do is stand down.”

“I never said that you should stand _down_ ,” Abaddon responds, “just that you should wait until the best moment to move in.”

“Mhmm,” Lilith grunts. “That doesn’t change the fact that you’re asking us to stay out of it. So whose best interests are you _really_ looking out for, hmm? Ours or the Reapers’?”

“We all have the same goal,” Abaddon says, “and it is to make sure the ‘Nines don’t expand into Lodi.”

“The same goal, perhaps, but very different motives,” Lilith says.

“I don’t play favorites. And even if I did, we’re _family_ , remember?” Abaddon says, bringing that smile out again, as though she _knows_ how infuriating it is. Lilith wants to shove a blade right through that horrible face.

“We can hold back,” Azazel says, finally speaking up. “Like Abaddon said, whoever wins in Lodi will be weakened by the conflict. We could take the town while they’re still recuperating.”

Lilith wants to keep arguing, but she knows that it would be arguing purely for the sake of arguing—it’s a sound strategy. She just hates that Abaddon was the one to bring it to the table.

* * *

“It makes no sense,” Sam says, pacing the length of the room. “Victor should be here by now.”

“I’ll call him,” Jo offers, getting out her phone. She dials his number and hits speaker phone, so that Sam will be able to join in on the conversation.

Victor doesn’t answer immediately, and when he does, it’s in a hushed tone. “You guys all right?”

“Sure, but you said you’d be here almost half an hour ago—where are you?” Jo asks. “Sam’s about to wear a hole through our carpet.”

Sam stops pacing, looking a little sheepish.

“I’m back in my office at the station,” Victor admits. “Chief Turner caught me trying to leave town, and he had Cas’s mom with him. I couldn’t just make a run for it. And he’s sticking around now, so I won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”

“Damn it,” Sam mutters under his breath, starting toward the door, but Jo hurries around to stand in front of it, blocking his way.

“Apparently the Reapers have sent people out to find Dean and Claire, though,” Victor goes on. “I don’t like it, but I gotta admit they’ll know what they’re doing out there.”

Sam glares at Jo when she doesn’t get out of his way, and then he turns around and gets out his cell phone. “I’m calling Crowley. It’s morning already, and the son of a bitch still hasn’t called with his answer. Knowing him, he’s been keeping it all to his goddamn self.”

“All right,” Victor says. “Text me with updates—Turner’s gonna be watching me all day. Better not to make too many phone calls.”

“Okay,” Jo says. “We’ll let you know if anything happens.”

“Good luck,” Victor says.

Jo hangs up, pockets her phone, and watches Sam as he lifts his phone to his ear.

“Crowley, it’s Sam,” he starts off, but it sounds like he’s interrupted. After listening for a minute, Sam says, “What the hell do you _mean_ , it’s not the ‘Nines? I have confirmation that it’s the ‘Nines! You told us to follow the Reapers’ lead, and they’re in Oakland, right now.”

Sam spins around, looking at Jo, but it’s not as though she has any helpful input—she’s got no clue what this Crowley guy is saying, anyway.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean, the Reapers have them?”

Jo is startled by that and is about ready to ask for Sam to put Crowley on speaker phone, but before she can, Sam stiffens, startled.

“Shit, hold on, I’m getting a call,” he says, pulling his phone away from his ear. His eyes go alarmingly wide when he checks the caller ID, and he says into the phone, quickly, “I’ll call you back!” He presses another button on his phone, presumably to take the second call, and says, “ _Dean?_ ”

Jo feels her heart leap into her throat. Shit, is Dean okay? Is this the kidnapper using Dean’s phone to call Sam? Did Dean get away somehow?

But Sam’s face falls slightly, and the next words out of his mouth are decidedly less enthused. “Oh— _Cas_. Uh. Hi. Is Dean—” he pauses, listening, and then says, “Can I talk to him? Can we—oh. Oh, you’re coming back to Morada now. I’m at Jo’s house.”

Jo immediately reaches out and smacks Sam’s upper arm, because he wasn’t supposed to tell _Cas_ that. Sam only winces a little, backing up a step.

“Yeah, I’ll see you guys in a bit. Thank you.” He hangs up then and says, “Dude, what was that for?”

“Um, hello? You’re not one of us anymore, remember?” Jo says. “In fact, you’re playing for the _opposite team_ , now. Do you seriously think it’s gonna be any good for me and Mom to get lumped in with you?”

“Oh, shit. Sorry,” Sam says.

“I mean, it’s not that big a deal for us. We don’t come into contact with the club all that often anymore, anyway. But the next time something like this happens, who’s gonna go talk to the Reapers and get your confirmation for you, if they decide not to trust Mom anymore?”

“All right, all right, I’m sorry,” Sam says.

“Sheesh,” Jo says. “For someone who grew up in the club, you’re pretty clueless.”

“Hey, I’ve been out for years. I was out before I was even old enough to understand half of it. Give me a break.”

“Yeah, yeah. So, the Reapers found Dean?”

“And Claire,” Sam replies. “They’re on their way back from Oakland right now.”

“Well, at least there’s that,” Jo says, relieved. “Now make me some breakfast. I’m starving.”

Sam looks like he’s about to argue, so Jo is pleasantly surprised when he just turns around and heads toward the kitchen. Pleased, she follows him into the other room to watch him work.

* * *

When Benny gets back to the safe house, he half-expects Alpha to be there already, waiting to question Benny about where their “guests” have gone.

But no cars are parked in front of the safe house, so Benny gets out of the van and takes a look at the side. There’s only one bullet hole in it, and considering the fact that the back of the van is already peppered with a couple bullet holes from before, Benny figures an extra one will be easily overlooked.

He makes his way into the house, feeling just a little lightheaded. Makes sense, since the wound across his chest is still bleeding sluggishly. Frowning down at himself, he picks up the discarded shard of glass—the one that’s in the hallway, still covered in his and Dean’s blood—and takes a deep breath to brace himself before shoving the tip back into the wound, dragging it across.

He can’t resist crying out in pain, and more blood flows from the gash.

Dropping the piece of glass, Benny turns, looking for something that’d be reasonable, and his eyes land on a vase that’s sitting on display, not too far from the entrance to the bathroom. So he picks it up and gets onto his knees, facing the door to the bathroom because if Dean really did wound him deeply, it makes sense that he would have tried to back away before dropping to his knees.

Then he closes his eyes and brings the vase down over his own head. There’s a split second of pain, and then Benny knocks out.

* * *

Alastair is annoyed.

He spent the entire night waiting for Sam Winchester to go somewhere, to _do_ something, because his gut told him that if anyone were to get news of Dean’s whereabouts, Sam would be one of the first to hear about it.

He’s not even sure where he’s parked right now—he knows geographically, of course, but he doesn’t know the identity of the woman in whose house Sam stayed the night. She had seemed insignificant, perhaps an old acquaintance of Sam and Dean’s.

If she is Sam’s girlfriend, then Alastair misjudged Sam’s loyalty to his brother, and last night was wasted.

But Alastair’s instincts haven’t let him down in the past, and he has faith in them yet, despite his annoyance. The Winchester brothers grew up with only each other as blood relatives, so Sam wouldn’t sit idly by while his brother’s whereabouts were still unknown. No, Alastair just has to be patient.

After about another half an hour of waiting, of mentally debating whether or not he should strike out on his own to find Dean, two sedans drive past his car and stop in front of the house where Sam’s car is parked. Alastair immediately pulls out his phone, to make it look like he’s calling someone—two sedans makes for eight potential Reapers who’ll be looking around, and they’re sure to notice if someone is blatantly watching them.

Dean gets out of one of the cars, and Alastair is pleased to see that he looks whole and unharmed, watches as Sam steps out of the house and hurries over to pull him into an embrace.

All is well, then.

Except—Alastair doesn’t miss the way Cas looks at Dean and, after Sam releases him, the way Dean looks back at Cas. Oh, Alastair had better get moving, and quick, if he’s to remove Cas from Dean’s path, especially after this adventure of theirs.

Cas is clearly a much bigger threat than Alastair could ever have foreseen.

* * *

The Nomads tail Cas and Limey’s car over to the old Harvelle house, where Sam is apparently staying, because Sam wants to see Dean. It’s not an unreasonable request, but Virgil is still surprised that Cas would decide to grant Sam’s request to see his brother before bringing Claire back to the clubhouse.

Virgil visited the Original Charter when he was patched in—almost everyone makes the trip at _some_ point—and after going Nomad, it became normal to stop by every now and then. But he never really knew the Winchester family. He’s heard a couple stories from Raph, but Raph didn’t really know them either—his stories came from the Mike, mostly.

“So, that’s Sam Winchester,” Ghoul says from the back seat, and Virgil looks out his window and sees a giant of a man emerging from the house, half-running over to where Dean has gotten out of the car in front of them.

“Looks like,” Virgil says.

“What do you say, should we say hello?” Ghoul asks.

“No,” Raph says. “He works in the DA’s office. Not someone we want to know.”

“If you say so,” Ghoul says.

Ghoul is pretty new to the club, at the young age of twenty-four—younger than some prospects are, even. He was only patched in maybe two years ago, and he pretty much immediately went Nomad. As far as Virgil knows, though, this is his first time visiting the Original Charter. It makes sense for him to be a little curious.

“Sharpie, there’s a guy sitting in a car, two houses down from us,” Ghoul says suddenly.

Virgil looks around before locating the car in question, a nondescript sedan with a man in the driver’s seat. But he’s on his phone, talking heatedly, even slams his hand down on the steering wheel once. Not likely that he’s here to watch them. Virgil says as much to his companions, and Raph nods.

“Sharpie’s right,” he says disinterestedly.

Then the car in front of them is starting again, and Virgil asks, “To the clubhouse, you think?”

“In all likelihood, yes,” Raph replies.

The drive back to Morton-Novak is quick, and they park the sedan in the lot before getting out and heading toward the clubhouse. Cas must have given Jules a call, because he’s already standing outside, waiting.

“Grandpa!” Claire shouts, running over to him.

Virgil can’t help but smile as Jules lifts her up and swings her around once—it seems so undignified, so uncharacteristic of the stone-cold man they face regularly.

Jules has Claire in his arms as they approach, and he says, “Dean. I’m glad you’re well.”

Virgil hadn’t even noticed that Dean had walked over with them—he actually hadn’t even noticed Dean getting back into the car when they were at the Harvelle house. They certainly could have left him there with his brother, so why didn’t they? Virgil vaguely remembers hearing that Dean was close friends with Cas and Limey, once. Perhaps they’re taking the time to catch up.

Dismissing it as none of his concern, he turns his attention back to Jules, who is telling Cas and Limey to be back for church in the evening. They agree and head back toward their car with Dean in tow, presumably to drop him off at his house.

Virgil joins Raph and Ghoul in following Jules back to the clubhouse.

“Alf!” Jules barks suddenly, and one of the prospects comes darting out of the garage. “Go to my house and pick up Amelia—let her know we’ve found Claire.”

“On my way,” Alf responds, jogging toward the sedan that the Nomads just got out of. Raph tosses the keys in his direction, and he catches them as he passes.

They haven’t even entered the clubhouse when Ghoul says, “I’m gonna go out for a ride, gotta get some air. Either of you wanna come with?”

“No,” Raph says.

Virgil shakes his head, so Ghoul just nods and turns away, heading for his bike. Virgil doesn’t bother to question it—anyone who’s gone Nomad usually doesn’t like staying in one place for any extended length of time. Sure, they just got back from a field trip to Oakland, but being confined in a car just isn’t as freeing as riding is.

Once inside, Jules sets Claire down and gives her a light push in Naomi’s direction. Naomi’s eyes light up when she sees her granddaughter, and she immediately gets off her barstool and stoops to hug her.

“Raph, Sharpie, with me,” Jules says, making a beeline for the chapel. As soon as the three of them are alone, Jules orders, “Tell me everything you know about Dean and Claire’s ‘escape’ from the ‘Nines.”

* * *

After Claire has been safely dropped off at Morton-Novak, Cas and Limey drive Dean back to his place. Dean’s a little surprised that Limey wanted to come with, but then again, Limey probably doesn’t trust Dean to be alone with Cas, given the way he’s acted around Dean every time they’ve seen each other in the past week.

Dean figures he’ll get home and change before heading to the hospital. He’ll apologize for being late and say that he fell down and cut his hand, so he probably shouldn’t operate for a couple days at least. He can still oversee surgeries, though, if nothing else.

When they get to his house, he hesitates before getting out of the car.

“Cas, can you come out with me for a sec?” he asks, meeting Limey’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“I’ll take the car around the block once,” Limey says, “but you’d better be done when I get back.”

Dean is surprised but doesn’t question it, getting out of the back seat and walking up his driveway toward the Impala. Cas comes toward him then, and fuck, he just looks—perfect. He’s not wearing his cut today, dressed down in a hoodie and frayed jeans, probably because the hoodie can help conceal all the weapons he’s hiding on his person. Then again, it was probably more because the cut would’ve been a dead giveaway that he was a Reaper on the Bloody ‘Nines’ territory.

“Thanks,” Dean manages, collecting himself.

“What, that’s it?” Cas says, pausing to lick his lips.

Dean’s eyes are drawn to the sliver of tongue that peeks out, and after that, he can’t stop looking at the way Cas’s lips glisten, and then he’s leaning in, like his body is acting on autopilot. He’d stop, but he doesn’t think he _can_.

Their lips press together, and Cas melts into it for all of about two seconds before going stock-still, and then he shoves Dean away from him, eyes wide.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Cas blurts out accusingly.

Dean’s jaw clenches, and his mind races as he flips through several answers that just aren’t as satisfying as the truth. So he finally says, “I have feelings for you.” Cas actually takes a step back, but now that Dean’s started, he _has_ to finish, so he goes on, “I can’t even begin to guess when it all started, but you… you and Sam were everything to me after my dad died, so—”

“Bullshit,” Cas cuts in. “You _left_.”

“I never wanted to leave.”

“Yeah? Well then why did you, huh? It’s not as though anyone was pushing you out the goddamn doors. You packed your own bags and walked out on—on the club. On your _family_.”

“How do you know I wasn’t forced out?” Dean bites out, and Cas falters. “Why the hell did you think I left, anyway? Did you seriously think I just decided out of the blue one day that I didn’t like—like the club anymore? That it wasn’t enough for me?”

“I didn’t know _what_ to think, Dean! It’s not as though you gave me an explanation. I _still_ don’t know why the fuck you ran away, and whose fault is that?”

Dean sighs. “I’m sorry. I am. I shouldn’t have just cut ties like that. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You could have _talked_ to me. I thought there were no secrets between us.”

“Cas…”

Looking Dean in the eye, Cas adds, “Well, you showed me.”

“I wanted to stay, all right?” Dean says. “But if I stayed, Naomi would’ve made me join up.”

“And what the hell was your problem with that? I thought we were gonna be partners.”

Dean nearly flinches at that. “I made a promise, all right? It was practically my dad’s dying wish.”

“What, for you _not_ to join the club that was basically the biggest part of his life?”

“Believe it or not, yes,” Dean says, and Cas snaps his mouth shut on whatever he was planning to say next. Dean continues, “And you know what, I get why. So many people die, Cas. And the ones that don’t die end up hurt, one way or another. Jimmy was just on my operating table a few days ago. Hell, I’m not even part of the club anymore and I was targeted, probably because you stayed at my house for a day. Is it that surprising that my dad didn’t want that for me, or for Sammy?”

Cas opens his mouth to speak, but Limey pulls up then, rolling the window down to call out that time’s up. Shit, Dean had forgotten that Limey was coming back.

“Just one more minute!” Cas shouts back, motioning for Limey to roll the window back up. When Limey does as told, Cas takes a step closer to Dean, lowering his voice. “Obviously, none of that shit has changed between then and now, so what the fuck was—was _that_ about?” he finishes, gesturing between them.

“That was me figuring out what I wanted and going for it,” Dean says.

A beat passes, and then Cas says, “I won’t leave the club for you.”

“And I’m not asking you to.”

“Then why—what do you want from me?”

“Everything,” Dean says reflexively. He adds, rapidly, “Nothing. I don’t know. Just—we lost each other once already, and it was my fault. I don’t want to just sit back and let it happen again.”

“You’re that sure, then,” Cas says. “That I have—those sorts of inclinations toward you.”

Dean lifts his hand before he even knows what he’s doing, intending to reach for Cas’s cheek, but he catches himself, puts it down on Cas’s shoulder instead. Cas is warm, solid, unbreakable.

 _Christ_ , Dean wants him.

“You gonna prove me wrong?” he asks lowly.

Cas only meets his gaze for a moment before looking down, eyes unfocused. Dean is acutely aware of their audience as he moves his hand, lifts his other as well, and cups Cas’s face between them, tipping his head back. Cas doesn’t push him away, so he takes a half step closer, so that their bodies are almost touching. He hovers there, waiting, and something flashes in Cas’s eyes, unidentifiable because it passes too quickly, and then a hand is curling around the back of Dean’s neck, drawing him down into a kiss.

Cas’s lips are a little chapped, but it hardly matters when Cas presses in closer, a line of heat all down Dean’s front, one hand cradling the back of Dean’s head while the other fists in the back of his shirt, holding him close.

Dean lets his hands fall to the small of Cas’s back, and all he can think is that this, this was always meant to happen. This is where he belongs.

They break apart at the sound of a car honking, and Dean’s eyes flick from Cas’s eyes, dark with want, to his lips, slick with spit.

“You done yet?” Limey says sharply.

Cas looks away first, hands falling away, and Dean follows his gaze to Limey, who seems just about as put out as Dean had expected.

Dean looks back at Cas and says, quietly, “To be continued?”

“I won’t have time tonight,” Cas says.

That makes sense, because now that Dean and Claire are back, the Reapers won’t be worried about straight-on attacking the ‘Nines. Dean tries to shrug off the worry that spikes in his chest at the thought that Cas could be in danger very soon. God, Cas is _always_ in danger, isn’t he?

“I’ll stop by the hospital tomorrow. When are you on duty?” Cas asks.

Dean shrugs. “I’m on duty most afternoons, so you could stop by then.”

Cas nods and backs up a step, and Dean very reluctantly lets his arms fall to his sides. Cas starts toward the car and is already getting in when Dean looks down and notices that Cas's ring is still on his hand.

He pulls it off and says, “Hey, wait—Cas, your ring.”

Cas pauses, looking back at Dean, and then slides into the car anyway and says, “Do you mind hanging onto it for me?”

Dean swallows hard, hesitant, and slips the ring back onto his finger. Cas nods at him, and then the door swings closed, and Limey stomps on the gas, making the engine groan in protest. Dean watches them disappear at the end of the street before heading into the house to change for work.

The ring sits heavily on his finger, like a promise.

* * *

Raph and Sharpie don’t ask questions when Adam says that he’s going out for a ride, but then, Adam hadn’t expected them to, anyway. That’s one of the things he’s liked most about going Nomad—no one questions you when you say you wanna leave.

So Adam gets on his bike and rides out of the lot, and no one tries to stop him.

He pulls up outside the Harvelle house a couple minutes later and dismounts, just in time for Sam Winchester to come out the front door. Sam pauses on his way to the car parked in the driveway and looks at Adam questioningly.

“Yeah, hey,” Adam says, walking up the driveway toward his half-brother. “I’m from the Reapers, just not this Charter, so you wouldn’t know me,” he adds, holding out a hand when he’s close enough.

Sam shakes it, still watching him curiously. “You know who I am?” he says.

“Yeah,” Adam responds. “I was in the other car that stopped by earlier. My name’s Adam.”

“Okay, nice to meet you,” Sam says. “Are you… looking for me? Or… Ellen, maybe?”

“I just wanted to talk to you,” Adam says. “Look, there’s uh, there’s something I have to give you. It’s gotta do with your dad.”

Sam’s eyes widen a fraction. “Adam, you look like you’re younger than me, and even _I_ hardly remember anything to do with my dad. What could you possibly—”

“Just…” Adam interrupts, but he doesn’t know what else to say, so he turns away and jogs over to his bike, popping open the trunk and digging through it until he finds the packet of letters, still in their envelopes, tied together by a rubber band.

“What are those?” Sam asks as Adam comes back over to him.

“Letters,” Adam says, grabbing one of Sam’s large hands and pressing the stack into it.

“Where’d you get them?”

“They were my mom’s,” Adam says. “Before she passed away, she gave them to me, told them that I had to get them to you or your brother. I uh, wasn’t sure whether or not I should, but… well. Just—be careful what you do with the information in them, all right?”

“Who was your mom?” Sam asks, squinting.

“Just read them,” Adam answers, because he doesn’t know how Sam would react to the news of having a half-brother, and besides, once Sam has read the letters, he should be able to put two and two together easily enough.

Before Sam can ask any more questions, Adam spins around and walks back over to his bike, hands shoved in the front pocket of his hoodie. He slams the trunk shut before climbing onto the bike, and when he glances back up toward the house, he sees that Sam is looking down at the letters, moving toward his car.

Adam puts his helmet on and rides away.

He’d thought about leaving the letters at home, or maybe even burning them, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget how sad Mom got every time she talked about Dad. Their time together was short, but Adam knows that she loved him very much.

For that, Adam needs to make sure that there’s at least a _chance_ that John Winchester will get justice, no matter what it’ll do to the leadership of the club here at the Original Charter.

Those letters, and Mom’s love, deserve to see the light.


	8. Forever Young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the lull after getting Claire back, the Reapers catch their breath. Rufus listens in on a conversation between Crowley, Sam, and Victor and alerts the Reapers about their plans. With the looming threat of the Feds and the potential for additional retaliation from the 'Nines since their hostages escaped, the Reapers reach out to the Lin Triad to secure protection for Bill on the inside. Cas and Victor finally catch sight of Alastair and realize that he is a threat to Dean's safety. The Campbell family begins to crumble from both the inside and outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 11:58pm PST, but I MADE IT, hell yeah! The chapter is a bit rough though, bc I didn't have a chance to do a reread before time was up x.x
> 
> (Whoops, I cut it pretty freaking close this month. Aaahh I stress so much over this fic like you wouldn't _believe_.)
> 
>  **Edit:** Omfg I forgot to put the chapter title on and it took me a week to notice aaaahh /hides

It’s quiet, cool. The humming of the bees is low, hardly audible from the porch but still present, constant, reassuring. The wooden bench creaks as Cain leans back, lifting the teacup to his lips to take a sip.

Out here in the quiet, with only bees for company, Cain hears the motorcycles coming long before they roll into sight.

Just in time, he thinks with a smile. The sun will rise soon.

Minutes later, he watches as his daughter swings off her bike and removes her helmet, shaking out her long, red hair as she does. She bounds up the steps to greet him, a smile stretching those blood-red lips.

“Father,” she says, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “How are you?”

“I am well, Alaina. Just came out here to wait for the sunrise.”

“I knew you would be,” she responds, stepping to the side so that she isn’t blocking Cain’s view of the horizon. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Good morning, Bela,” Cain says—his daughter’s companion has just reached the porch. Bela only smiles, and Cain offers, “You can help yourself to tea and honey, if you like. It’s just inside.”

“Tea can wait,” Alaina answers, sitting down next to Cain and looking out at the sky.

“Yes, I suppose it can,” Cain replies.

Bela perches on the armrest beside Cain, and if he were still capable of surprise, he’s certain he would feel it. As it is, however, he just accepts her presence and moves on.

Bela Talbot has never liked this place—too austere for her lavish tastes—and as a result, she has always been disinterested in Cain himself. Today, though, with Alaina on his left and Bela on his right, they feel almost like a family.

Cain only wishes Colette were here to see this. She would have loved Alaina.

* * *

Aggie sits on an upturned bucket just inside the garage and watches distractedly as Luce works on his bike. It got scraped up pretty good the day before yesterday, and Aggie almost thinks it’d be better—more time- and cost-efficient, that is—to replace the side panels altogether. But Luce is gonna sand and repaint them, and Aggie has never been one to dictate how another man should take care of his bike.

Last night was a tough vote.

Not tough as in close—the vote was pretty much unanimous. No, it was tough because all of them wanted retaliation, but all of them understood why it couldn’t be done. Not yet.

Technically, the Reapers came out on top, this time around. They killed a ‘Nine, and they got both hostages back alive. If anything, they should be expecting some more retaliation from the ‘Nines, since Dean and Claire got away. But having a kid taken leaves a sour taste in anyone’s mouth, and even Aggie is itching to give those sons of bitches hell. More Reaper retaliation against the ‘Nines will only make shit worse, though, and if things get any worse, one of their own might be _killed_ next time, not just taken.

In the end, everyone agreed that they would remember this and save it for the next time they crossed paths with the ‘Nines. It was unsatisfying, but it would keep everyone alive.

At least Claire is okay. That is a goddamn blessing already. Aggie saw her after she got back yesterday, and she didn’t seem troubled at all. But appearances can be deceiving. Trauma doesn’t always show on the surface, especially for kids her age.

“Hey, old man! You gonna just sit there and watch, or are you gonna come over here and give me a hand?” Luce calls, glancing up from his work.

Aggie shakes his head. “I’ve done my share of the work this week. Time for you to get your hands dirty for a change,” he replies.

“Lazy old bastard,” Luce says, just loud enough to carry, and Aggie laughs.

His laughter fades quickly, though, and he’s just left with his thoughts again. He has a bad feeling about all that’s happened in the past week, since Jimmy got run down by a car.

How much blood will be spilled before this all quiets down?

* * *

Benny wakes with a mild headache, annoying but tolerable. There’s an itch on his chest, but when he lifts his hand to scratch it, someone stops him.

“Thank goodness,” Andrea says, and Benny turns his head a little, sees her leaning closer to look at him. “You’ve been out cold for almost twenty-four hours.”

When Benny lifts his head, he sees that his shirt is gone, and his chest is covered in white bandages. Right—Dean cut him earlier. Yesterday. Benny remembers hitting his own head, but he hadn’t expected to put himself out of commission for a whole _day_.

“Are you okay?” Andrea asks, worried.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Benny says.

“Are you dizzy at all? Do you think you have a concussion?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is your vision okay? Do you remember what happened yesterday?”

“I’m fine, darlin’,” Benny says. “Nothing’s blurry, and I remember exactly what happened yesterday.” When Andrea looks at him expectantly, he says, “Dean was a better fighter than I’d expected, given that he was a goddamn _doctor_.”

“Apparently,” Andrea says with a sigh.

“Is Alpha angry?”

“Is he ever?” Andrea responds. “He’s worried about you—I’ll get him.”

Benny watches his wife leave the room before shutting his eyes, preparing himself. He’s a good liar, but Alpha knows him very well; Benny doesn’t even know for sure whether or not he’ll be able to pull this off. His injury should provide him some cover, but it won’t be much.

Then Benny hears Alpha’s footsteps entering the room. “I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I shouldn’t have let them get away.”

“You’re forgiven,” Alpha says, sitting down in the chair at Benny’s bedside. “All I want is for you and your brother to recover quickly. It’s unfortunate that you were both injured at the same time.”

“I’m fine,” Benny says. “It’s just a scratch.”

“And I’m grateful for that,” Alpha says. “I have one of Gordon’s men running errands for me in your stead, so you can take the rest of today to recover. We’ll all sit down tomorrow morning—Eli should be able to attend by then.”

Benny frowns. “Alpha, I could—”

“I understand that you are willing to go right back to work, but I am telling you not to, for my peace of mind,” Alpha interrupts.

Benny opens his mouth to protest, but it is highly unlikely that Alpha will change his mind. “All right, then. I’ll stay home.”

“Good,” Alpha says. “Sit with Eli for a while. He’s been asking after you.”

“Yeah, I will.”

Alpha gets to his feet, smiling in approval. He lays a hand over Benny’s forehead for just a moment before turning to leave the room.

Benny holds back a sigh, relieved that Alpha didn’t question him about what happened at the safe house. It’s good to be trusted, but at the same time, Benny can’t help but feel a little guilty about letting Dean and Claire go. It isn’t quite so bad as Benny had expected to feel, though, because Dean saved Eli’s life, and Claire wasn’t supposed to be taken in the first place. Benny’s decision to let them go evens the scales—they don’t owe each other anything anymore.

Now he just wishes that that were true on a club level.

* * *

It’s too much.

It’s too goddamn much, and Sam wishes he could just go back to not knowing. It was easier when he didn’t know, when he was still under the impression that Dad’s death was just bad luck, bad timing. He probably should’ve known, should’ve realized that nothing regarding the club could ever be that simple.

The club _has_ to go. Sam had felt a little bit bad about it before because of his history with the club—after all, he doesn’t remember Mom. The people who mothered him while he was growing up were Naomi and Ellen, and while he doesn’t get the full reasons behind Dean leaving the club and taking Sam with him, he still cares very much about his mothers.

But he can’t just let the club get away with it. Charles Novak is dead already, but Jules is still very much alive, and the betrayal had to have come from Jules—Sam will never believe that Bobby had anything to do with Dad’s death. Bobby _or_ Aggie.

“Sam,” Ruby says, interrupting his thoughts.

“Yeah.”

“You okay? You’ve been really quiet all morning.”

“I’m fine,” Sam says shortly.

“You don’t _look_ fine.”

“How do I look, then?” Sam asks.

“Pissed,” Ruby says with a shrug.

“Yeah, that’s ‘cause I am,” he snaps. Ruby raises an eyebrow at him, so he sighs and says, “Look, just stay out of it. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“You’re pissed. It has everything to do with me,” Ruby says, moving in front of him and taking first his left hand, then his right hand. “You’re gonna blow up if you keep all that rage locked up inside you. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on with you.”

“It’s nothing,” Sam says, because the less Ruby knows, the better.

The letters aren’t solid proof, definitely wouldn’t be useful for prosecution, but Ruby wouldn’t be concerned with that. If Ruby decided to help Sam, she’d go about it in all the wrong ways—Sam may not have been as close with the clubmembers as Dean was, but he remembers what it was like growing up, and he’s heard enough stories to know how these outlaw bikers solve their problems. Ruby insists that Amazons MC isn’t an _outlaw_ motorcycle club, but Sam still has his doubts.

“Come on, Sam, what is it? You know you can tell me anything.” When Sam only shakes his head, Ruby frowns at him and says, “Don’t you trust me? If we haven’t got trust for each other, then we haven’t got anything.”

“I do trust you,” Sam says.

“Then tell me about it. If I came home all upset, you know you wouldn’t leave me alone until I talked.”

Sam sighs, because Ruby’s got him there. If their situations were reversed, he would definitely pester her until she got all the crap off her chest. But these are old secrets, potentially dangerous secrets, depending on how much of the club was in on the setup.

“It’s gotta do with my dad,” Sam says—he’s gotta give her _something_ to get her off his back.

“Didn’t your dad die like twenty years ago?”

“Yeah. I just… found out some stuff about his death that I didn’t know before.”

“What kind of stuff?” Ruby asks.

“The details aren’t important,” Sam tells Ruby, and as soon as he hears the words aloud, he realizes that they’re true. It doesn’t matter who decided what. It had to have been Jules’s call or a club vote. Either way, Dad died because of the Reapers, and that’s all that matters.

“Okay…? At least tell me why you’re mad about the ‘stuff’ that you found out.”

“He died because of the Reapers,” Sam says.

Ruby stares up at him. “Uh, yeah? He was defending the warehouse when the Russians raided, wasn’t he?” she says—Sam’s told her the story before.

“No, but—fuck. It wasn’t chance or bad luck that the Russians happened to attack when they did,” Sam says. “It wasn’t a coincidence that Dad was up there on his own.”

“You mean—the Reapers set him up?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you find _that_ out?”

“I got some letters from a member of the Reapers—not local. I guess my dad had an affair with another woman after my mom died, and he wrote to her about it.”

“Are you sure the letters are even real?” Ruby asks.

“I’m pretty sure. I found some old paperwork to compare his handwriting—it’s his, for sure,” Sam says.

“But why would a member of the Reapers give that to you, if they knew it was gonna point your dad’s death at the Reapers?”

“I don’t… shit,” Sam says. “He said that these were his mom’s letters. Fuck, I—I’ve gotta find him.”

“Wait, you don’t mean—”

“I think I have another brother,” Sam says, starting to back away from Ruby, because holy crap, this is huge. Does Dean know? Of course Dean doesn’t know—Sam’s gotta tell him—

“Sam, calm down,” Ruby says, letting go of his hands to grab his upper arms instead.

“I have to ask Dean about this. I have to tell him,” Sam says.

Really, he should have gone to Dean with the letters yesterday, but he had needed time to process them, reread them, think them through. He doesn’t know how Dean would react, either. Jules may be club president now, but the president at the time was Cas’s _actual_ dad, not just his stepdad.

Yeah, it’s for the best that Dean doesn’t know, not just yet at least, because Sam is pretty sure Dean would immediately leap to the club’s defense on this.

“Okay, but don’t you think you should confirm it first?” Ruby says. “That woman was his mom, but that doesn’t mean she had him with your dad, right? Unless they’re old ladies, girls that hang around MCs aren’t exactly known for being monogamous.”

Sam nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I have to talk to him first. And while I’m at it, I might as well ask what the hell he expects me to do with these letters. I mean, he may not be local, but what happens in the Original Charter affects all the other charters—he knows that.”

“And what’s gonna happen in the Original Charter, Sam?” Ruby asks slowly.

“They’re going down. All of them,” Sam answers, meeting Ruby’s eyes. She looks worried, which really only confirms Sam’s suspicions that the Amazons operate just as far outside the law as the Reapers.

“Sam, you have to be careful. You’re gonna get yourself killed going up against them.”

“I know the club, and I know what I’m doing,” Sam says evenly. “I have to get more involved with the case that the ATF is working on. I’d kill them all myself, but I don’t have the manpower for that. I’m not a killer, anyway, and I won’t let them bring me to their level.”

“Slow down, Sam. You do realize this is Reapers MC you’re talking about—you grew up with these people,” Ruby says.

“They’re all criminals,” Sam says. “Even Bobby and Aggie—maybe they weren’t involved in setting up my dad, maybe they were. Either way, they deserve to go to jail.”

“And that’s gonna be enough for you? Putting them away?”

“No,” Sam says. “But once they’re locked up, I can see to it that they don’t get released. You know what happens in state prisons. Fights break out. People die. It happens all the time.”

“Dude. Sam, you’re scaring me a little.”

“I’m scaring myself, too,” Sam replies, pulling away from his girlfriend. “Look, you oughta stay out of Morada until all this shit blows over.”

“I don’t ride there all that often anyway,” Ruby says.

“Good.”

“Where are you going?” Ruby asks as Sam heads toward the bedroom.

“I’ve got a meeting with Crowley in Morada,” Sam says, getting himself a change of clothes. On his way back out, he says to Ruby, “I’ll be back for dinner.”

Her smile doesn’t hide her worry. “Yeah, okay.”

* * *

When Meg walks onto the lot, she sees Claire aiming a Super Soaker at one of the prospects. He’s got a water gun too, but he’s currently on the run, getting chased in big circles.

“Hey! Leave the poor guy alone!” Meg calls out, grinning when Claire halts the chase to look over at her.

“Meg!” Claire shouts.

Meg totally isn’t expecting a hug, but that’s exactly what she gets—Claire races over to her and throws one skinny arm around Meg’s waist, the Super Soaker pressing into Meg’s side.

“Hey, squirt,” Meg says, squeezing Claire gently before stepping back. “You were so little the last time I saw you—I thought you wouldn’t remember me.”

“Of course I remember you!” Claire says indignantly. “When I grow up, I want to be just like you.”

“Oh, really?” Meg says, laughing. “Not like your Uncle Cas, then?”

Claire wrinkles her nose, like the idea offends her. “Uncle Cas is a _boy_.”

Meg laughs again, because yeah, she remembers that stage of her own life all too well. “Well,” she says, “whoever you wanna be like, don’t let your mom hear you talking about it. She’ll hate us.”

Claire nods solemnly, and maybe she’s still in a phase where she thinks she isn’t like Cas at all, but she has no idea just how much she acts like her uncle already. She certainly seems to take after him more than her own daddy.

“So, you know where your Uncle Cas might be?” Meg asks.

“Nope,” Claire says, rocking back on her heels.

“The VP was supposed to be out making a protection run with a couple of the guys,” the prospect says.

“What do you mean, _supposed_ to be?” Meg asks.

“He didn’t show up this morning, so the guys had to leave without him.”

“Jesus. Is he okay? Do you know where he is?”

The prospect—Alf, Meg thinks—shrugs. “No clue. He does that sometimes, y’know, riding off to clear his head. They all do.”

Not at a time like this, though, Meg can’t help but think. It’s irresponsible to go riding off on your own when your club is at risk of more retaliation from a gang like the ‘Nines, _especially_ when you were just shot days ago. Then again, Cas has never claimed to be responsible.

“Claire! Put that gun down _right now!_ ”

Meg turns around and sees Amelia approaching them from the clubhouse.

“Aw, but Mommy!” Claire whines, taking a few steps back, but she doesn’t resist when Amelia pulls the gun out of her hands.

“Sorry?” Alf tries as Amelia shoves the water gun into his arms.

“Save it,” Amelia grumbles, grabbing Claire’s hand and leading her back toward the clubhouse.

Meg looks over at Alf, who just shrugs and shakes his head. It’s strange for Amelia to be sensitive to guns, given the family she chose to marry into. It’ll take more than just prohibiting water guns to change Claire’s mind about the club, though; that’s for sure. Claire _adores_ Cas, always has.

As Meg moves toward the clubhouse to wait, she hears a bike coming up the street, and a moment later, Cas rides up onto the lot. Meg walks over to him as he parks his bike, and he smiles.

“Hey. What’re you doing here?” he asks as he dismounts.

“Hey, Cas,” Meg says, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Just wanted to see you.”

Cas’s brows are furrowed when Meg leans back, and he says, “Okay… is something wrong?”

“No. I just had to see you before I could relax. I heard that you got shot, and I spent all day yesterday worried about you because I knew you were out in Oakland, which is arguably the most dangerous place for you to be, right now.”

“I’m fine—obviously,” Cas says, spreading his arms out like he’s opening himself up for inspection. “And Claire’s okay, too.”

“Yes, I know. I got to talk to her for a little while, before Amelia yanked her inside,” Meg says. “What are they doing here?”

“It’s kind of a dangerous time,” Cas answers. “We all agreed it wouldn’t be safe to just leave them at home alone, so they’re staying with Jules and Naomi for a while. We figured it’d be simpler to have them over at the clubhouse, since someone’s always around to keep an eye on them.”

“Makes sense,” Meg says, nodding.

“So, you’ve seen me. Now what?”

“Well, it’s still early. We could grab some breakfast, if you haven’t already eaten,” Meg suggests.

“Actually, I think Naomi’s making breakfast in the clubhouse. You can join us, if you want to.”

“Sure.”

Cas starts walking past Meg, but it feels like there’s still so much that Meg hasn’t said. Her hand whips out and snatches Cas’s elbow before she can think better of it, and he halts, looking surprised.

“Meg?”

“Shit,” Meg says. She’s gotta at least _try_ , right? Cas looks wary now, and she wonders whether or not he already knows what she’s gonna say. Regardless, she decides to come right out with it—“Cas, do you ever think about going back?”

“Going back where?” Cas asks, frowning. Meg just gives him an expectant look, waiting for him to catch on, because he’s not _stupid_. His eyes widen a fraction when he realizes what she’s talking about, and he says, “What—you mean, going back to… us?”

The tone of his voice is answer enough, but Meg responds anyway, “Yeah. To us.”

“Ah, shit,” Cas mutters. “I thought we agreed that things were better before we hooked up. And breaking up was good for us too, wasn’t it?”

He means it. God, he really means that, and Meg hates it. “Yeah,” she forces herself to say. “Yeah, you’re right. Guess I just got nostalgic for a second.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Cas says lightly, but there’s something tense about the way he’s carrying himself, and that’s more than enough confirmation to Meg that they’ll never be together again.

“C’mon, let’s get something to eat. I’ve missed your mom’s cooking,” Meg says, backing away from Cas and spinning around to go toward the clubhouse.

Cas catches up to her in time to open the door for her, and when she catches a glimpse of his face, he seems relieved. Well, fuck.

* * *

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Gwen immediately minimizes the browser window she’d been working on, but it’s too late—when she turns in her seat, Christian is glowering at her accusingly. “Nothing,” she says anyway.

“I saw everything. You’re applying to college. You’re _already_ going to school,” Christian says.

“I’m applying for a transfer,” Gwen corrects him. “And what the hell are you doing still home, anyway? Aren’t you late for your crank sales?”

“You’re never gonna leave this place,” Christian says as though he didn’t hear her at all. “You might as well quit dreaming.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Gwen says, annoyed. “I am sick and tired of being stuck in this dead-end town with this suffocating family, and I am _leaving_.”

“You’d better watch your mouth, or I’m gonna smack you.”

“You can go right on ahead! It won’t do any good, because any number of beatings won’t change my mind,” Gwen says decidedly—she’s been thinking about this for a long time already.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll take this to Samuel?”

“I’ve got nothing to hide. I was thinking about telling Samuel anyway, one of these days,” Gwen responds. She’s bluffing, because she definitely wasn’t going to get into an argument about this before even finishing her application, but she’s not afraid to let her great uncle find out, either. He’d have to know sooner or later, anyway.

Christian glances down at his watch and curses before saying, “We’re not done here.”

“Actually, yeah, we are.”

“You’re lucky I’m running late,” Christian says as he stalks out of her bedroom.

Gwen gets up and slams the door after him.

* * *

“Must we do this here? I hate discussing things in public,” Crowley says when he reaches the table where Sam is sitting with Deputy Henriksen.

“Look, I’m not putting up with your paranoid bullshit today, okay?” Sam says. “We’re doing this here.”

“You’re gonna get us all killed, just you wait,” Crowley grumbles, sliding into the booth beside Henriksen. He picks up the menu nearest him and looks around the diner surreptitiously.

“Crowley, you know why we’re here today, right?” Sam says.

“Please, enlighten me,” Crowley says, stopping just short of rolling his eyes.

“You need to start giving us details,” Sam says. “Before you say anything—if you want us to help you effectively, we’re gonna have to be in the know. And three heads are better than one.”

“Not if two of those heads aren’t fit for the job.”

“The hell do you mean by that?” Henriksen says sharply.

“If you want to know everything, then I have to be able to trust you, okay?” Crowley says. “I need to know that you’re as committed to taking this club down as I am. Bad things happen to people who poke at these outlaws without figuring out what they’re dealing with, and I’m not going to be responsible for you two idiots if you lose your lives.”

“I just want to keep Morada safe,” Henriksen says. “The best way of doing that is to lock up the MC—or drive them out of town, at the very least.”

“That I believe,” Crowley says. Turning his eyes on Sam, he goes on, “ _You_ , on the other hand—”

“I’m not afraid of dying.”

The waiter appears then, and Crowley holds back his response. Sam and Victor each rattle off an order, and Crowley chooses a menu item at random before shooing the boy away.

Turning back to Sam, he says, “I believe that you’re brave. That’s not what I’m worried about, _Winchester_.”

“I grew up on the inside,” Sam reasons. “I have an idea of what we’re walking into and what we’re dealing with.”

“But you growing up on the inside seems to be a conflict of interest, to me,” Crowley points out. “How can you not be emotionally attached to the people from your childhood?”

“I didn’t care much for them then, and I hate them now,” Sam says, and Crowley’s surprised at the venom in his voice—it wasn’t there just yesterday when they spoke on the phone, and Crowley wonders what has changed in the last twenty-four hours. After all, Dean’s kidnapping wasn’t entirely on the Reapers, and they were partly responsible for getting him back here in one piece.

“Hate is a strong word, Sam.”

“My parents died because of the club,” Sam says. “Believe me, I have even more reason to want them behind bars than you do.”

“That wasn’t the tune you were singing earlier this week.”

“Well yeah, but that was before I—before the club got my brother freaking kidnapped. The only real way to keep Dean safe from them is to make sure they can’t get to him, and they can’t get to him from jail. Just—I’m committed, okay?”

Crowley still gets the sense that Sam isn’t telling him something, but he decides to let it slide—the source of Sam’s motivation doesn’t matter as much as the motivation itself. So he says, “All right, then. What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Sam says. “But start with what happened in Oakland yesterday.”

“The Reapers weren’t the ones to rescue Dean and Claire,” Crowley says, for starters. He’d followed the Reapers’ car to an empty lot, so he’d had to park the car a block away and double back on foot, but he’d seen enough. “The hostages were delivered to them by someone on the inside—one of the Lafitte twins.”

“You’re joking,” Sam says.

“Not at all,” Crowley responds. “Now, when you look at anything to do with these outlaws, you have to think the way that they do. They preach about ‘honor’ and ‘fairness,’ but when it comes down to it, what they care about most is getting even.”

“Okay, so motive,” Henriksen says. “How would one of the Lafitte twins think that letting Dean go would even the scale?”

“That I don’t know,” Crowley admits. “But I do know why they were kidnapped in the first place. That shooting on Thursday was the start of it all. On Friday, a man was killed in Stockton prison. His name was Quentin Clayton, a younger member of the ‘Nines. His murderer was none other than William Harvelle, better known as Famine.”

“No,” Sam says.

“There’s security footage of him sticking a penknife into Quentin’s neck. It was over very quickly.”

“Shit,” Sam says.

“How’d you even know to check for that?” Henriksen asks.

“I’m working a case on the Reapers,” Crowley says. “It only makes sense to keep tabs on all their members, in and out of jail.”

“Okay, so the kidnapping was revenge for the murder?” Sam says, frowning. “I mean, I guess that kinda makes sense, but I don’t get why one of the Lafitte twins would let them go—the twins are notorious for their violent tendencies and their loyalty to Alpha Worthington. I haven’t worked any cases in Oakland, but I’ve still heard plenty about them.”

“I’ve spent some time considering it, and I think there are three possibilities,” Crowley says, leaning forward in his seat so that he can lower his voice. “One, the twin was having second thoughts about the kidnapping and chose to take matters into his own hands. Two, Dean somehow got the better of him and forced him to take them to the Reapers. Mind you, this isn’t entirely unlikely—I saw the man get out of the car, and he _was_ injured.”

“Okay, and the last one?” Henriksen prompts.

“Three, Alpha let them go on purpose.”

“Why the hell would he want that, though? They’re his revenge—or his leverage,” Sam says.

“Maybe he spoke with Dean. Maybe Dean wants the Reapers to go down as much as Sam does,” Crowley posits. After all, he knows very little about Dean Winchester. “Maybe Alpha released Dean in the hopes that he would get close to the club and become Alpha’s man on the inside.”

“That’s impossible,” Sam says. “Dean wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not? You seem to hate the club plenty.”

“Dean isn’t me,” Sam says.

“Explain.”

“We’re just—not the same. What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to explain how you can be so certain that it’s not the third possibility,” Crowley says.

“I just am,” Sam says.

“You know, Sam, I’m sharing everything that I know with you. A little quid pro quo would not go unappreciated,” Crowley says.

“Dean cares a lot about the club, all right? He always has. He wouldn’t betray them like that, even if he’s not a member,” Sam says.

“That isn’t good enough.”

“He just wouldn’t, okay? It has to be one of the first two choices, or something else.”

“Fine,” Crowley says, but it definitely sounds like there’s something buried there—he’ll have to go digging, find out if Dean is someone he can use.

“Is there anything else we should know?” Henriksen asks.

“No,” Crowley replies. “I have nothing usable on the Reapers at present, but after all that’s gone down in the past few days, I’m thinking about paying old Famine a visit. Would you two like to join me?”

“It’d probably be better if I didn’t go,” Sam says.

“What, will it bring up too many memories for you?”

“No. I don’t want him talking to the club and telling them that I’m working with the ATF,” Sam says.

“The man’s been in jail for almost two decades, Sam. I doubt he’ll recognize you,” Crowley says.

“Still. Just—go with Victor, and you guys can catch me up after.”

“All right, then. I’ll contact you when I plan to go,” Crowley says, turning toward Henriksen.

“How do we know that you won’t go without me?” Henriksen asks.

“You don’t. S’pose you lads will just have to trust me, won’t you?” Crowley says, smiling quickly. Then he gets to his feet, pulls a few bills out of his wallet, and places them on the table. “This was lovely. Next time, let’s not meet here.”

With that, he turns away from the table and heads for the exit.

* * *

As Agent Crowley passes by, Rufus ducks his head, pretending to be engrossed in his newspaper. Sam and Victor have started talking again, but Rufus is done listening—he’s heard enough already.

He had made a point of dropping the tail on Victor after finding out that Dean was returned safe to Morada, but he’d had an officer in plainclothes following Victor around, and sure enough, it paid off. Agent Crowley is a smart son of a bitch, and if the club isn’t careful, they might not make it.

It’s troubling that Agent Crowley knew to follow Cas and Limey in Oakland, but what’s more important right now is getting some information to the club—they need to know that the ATF is closer than they expected, and that the agent is planning to press Bill for intel on the club.

Rufus didn’t know Bill very well, but Ellen grew up in the house down the street from him, and he has fond memories of her tagging along like an annoying little kid sister. All Rufus remembers of Bill is that he treated Ellen right, that he was a loving father—for the three years that he was with Jo, before getting thrown in jail.

Rufus highly doubts that Bill would ever turn on the club, but he’d better tell the guys about this, anyhow. Maybe they’ll be less likely to do something rash if they know that an ATF agent is watching them like a hawk.

* * *

Right around lunchtime, Mom, Amelia, and Claire come into Jimmy’s sickroom bearing tribute in the form of a nice, greasy burger and a mountain of fries.

“I love you all,” Jimmy says as Amelia sets the tray down in front of him, and he means it. He and Cas are polar opposites in a lot of ways, but their favorite food has always been the same.

“Love you, too, Daddy,” Claire says, perching on the side of the bed and filching a fry.

“How’re you feeling?” Mom asks.

“I’m good,” Jimmy says after swallowing a bite of his burger. “Bored out of my mind, but good.”

“Good,” Mom says, chuckling.

“What have you all been up to? Entertain me.”

As expected, Claire pipes up immediately, but what comes out of her mouth is definitely not what Jimmy anticipated—“I got taken by bad guys.”

“Claire!” Amelia snaps, but Claire doesn’t recoil.

She doesn’t stop, either, because she goes on to say, “It’s okay, because Dean got us out.”

“…Dean,” Jimmy says, looking over at Mom. She looks _very_ weary.

“Yeah, Dean!” Claire says, beaming. “I like him.”

“You guys want to tell me what’s going on?” Jimmy asks, putting the burger down and snagging a napkin to wipe his fingers off.

“We just didn’t want to worry you,” Amelia says

“Well, you got what you wanted. I’m not worried, but I’m kinda pissed.”

“Don’t be mad,” Claire says. “I’m alive. The bad guys didn’t do anything to me.”

“Okay, good,” Jimmy says, toning down his anger because it isn’t Claire’s fault. He pins an angry look on Mom, though, because keeping it from him was probably her idea. She’s about as overprotective as they come.

“It all passed very fast,” Amelia says. “She was taken Friday night, but we had her back by midmorning yesterday.”

“And Dean? How does he figure into this?”

“I like him,” Claire reiterates before Mom or Amelia can say anything.

“Why’s that, kiddo?”

“Dean loves Uncle Cas,” Claire says, sounding utterly pleased. Mom goes very still, and Jimmy—Jimmy isn’t sure how to feel about that.

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” Mom reprimands.

“I _do_ understand love,” Claire says crossly. “I see it every day. I’m not a _baby_.”

“We know you’re not a baby,” Jimmy says to mollify her. “The only reason Grandma doesn’t believe you is because she wasn’t there to see it for herself.”

This response seems to satisfy Claire, but when Jimmy looks over at his mother, she’s definitely still brooding. Whatever—Dean and Cas have their own issues to work out. It’s out of Jimmy’s hands, and Mom can’t do anything about it, either.

“Why were you with Dean in the first place, Claire?” Jimmy asks, since she’s the most likely to give him a straight answer.

“Uncle Cas got hurt, so he asked Dean to get me after ballet practice,” Claire says. “I didn’t go with him until he showed me the ring, just like Uncle Cas said.”

“Good girl,” Jimmy says. “And then what?”

“The bad guys got us in front of Dean’s house.”

“Who were these bad guys you keep talking about?” Jimmy asks.

Claire looks up at Amelia, then at Mom, and it makes sense that she wouldn’t know this bit—kids obviously aren’t kept in the loop when it comes to club business.

“Bloody ‘Nines. Oakland,” Mom supplies.

“Jesus Christ,” Jimmy says. “I’m glad you’re okay, Claire.”

“I’m fine. Dean did a Batman and saved us,” Claire says, smiling.

“How’d he do that?” Jimmy asks.

Claire presses her lips together for a moment before saying, “Uncle Cas said never to talk about it without his permission, to anybody.”

“Well we’re not just anybody, are we? We’re your family,” Mom says, and Jimmy glances in her direction curiously—it sounds like she doesn’t know how Claire got out either, which is strange because not much goes down that Mom doesn’t hear about. She and Jules don’t keep secrets.

Or at least, that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Jimmy gets the feeling that Mom has lots of secrets locked away in her head.

“It’s probably better for me not to know, if Cas said not to tell,” Jimmy decides, taking the pressure off his daughter. “The less I know about this side of the club, the better. Cas has a good idea of what I should and shouldn’t know.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Mom concedes.

“Eat, Jimmy,” Amelia says. “Your food’s gonna get cold.”

Jimmy nods and picks his burger back up.

* * *

“Why the hell didn’t you say anything? Do you know how fucking embarrassing it was to show up at your door asking for you, only to find a mouthy teenage boy in the middle of a snit with his parents? We saw each other just yesterday morning.”

“I’m _sorry_ , Mom,” Ruby repeats for the zillionth time. “I didn’t think it was important. I’m still in town, and I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“You’re supposed to _say something_ when you pack up and move to a new place, no matter whether or not the new place is still in town,” Mom huffs.

She sounds angry, but Ruby knows what that’s all about—she showed up at Ruby’s old place, and when she couldn’t find her there, she was worried for a second. Mom hates feeling things as “weak” as worry, so her reaction, naturally, is to be furious about it.

“Did you move for a man?” she asks next.

“I am living with my boyfriend, yes,” Ruby admits.

“Where?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Ruby—”

“I don’t wanna live under a microscope, all right? You letting me get my own place was so that we wouldn’t have to see each other on a regular basis, remember?”

“You act as though I drop in on you all the time. Even when I knew where you were, I hardly came by.”

“Then it doesn’t matter whether or not you know where I live,” Ruby points out. “You would hardly ever use the information anyway, right?”

Instead of an answer, the next thing Ruby hears is the dial tone. Rolling her eyes, she tosses her phone back down on the counter and takes a drag from her cigarette.

* * *

There’s a man leaning against the driver’s door of Christian’s car when he comes back from his latest exchange. His head is tilted down, his hood pulled up, hiding his face in shadow, but Christian already has an idea of who it is.

“You were the person who was following me,” he says when he’s close enough, looking back and forth quickly to make sure no one else is around—it isn’t a busy street, and they’re the only ones here.

The man hesitates for a moment, like he was caught off guard, but then he says, “Just taking orders.” He lifts his head then, and Christian confirms that he’s never seen this man before. “My name is Max,” the guy says, extending a hand.

Christian shakes it slowly, hesitant. “What do you want?”

“My boss wants to meet you, just for a quick chat.”

“Who’s your boss?”

“I can’t say. You’ll see soon enough. They’re interested in you, though. You’re better than your family, you know. They don’t deserve your loyalty.”

“They’re my _family_ ,” Christian says, frowning. “Of course they deserve my loyalty.”

“They may be your family by blood, but that doesn’t mean that they’d do anything for you, or for each other, even,” Max says. “A family by choice is stronger because you _choose_ each other.”

“I don’t believe that,” Christian says, but… well, it… kinda makes sense.

“We’re not planning to hurt or coerce you. All we want is to give you a chance to choose,” Max says.

“I’m good with the family I’ve already got, thanks.”

“We’re in Lodi, on your turf,” Max says, out of the blue. “You knew that I was tailing you before, so you must’ve told Samuel about it.” He pauses, and when Christian says nothing, he continues, “Why is it that you’re not better protected, then? Is this how the great Samuel Campbell takes care of his own grandnephew? By _not_ making sure that he’s protected from potential threats?”

If this guy isn’t the snake spewing lies to Eve in the Garden, then he’s the snake’s mouthpiece. But his words all seem to hit home, and that can’t be a coincidence, can it?

“Samuel made a call to Dick Roman,” Christian tries.

“Why the hell do you think Dick Roman would care?” Max says. “If Samuel really cared about your life and death, he wouldn’t let you come out here on your own after hearing that someone was tailing you.”

And well, shit. It’s been almost two days since Christian told his dad that he noticed a tail, and Samuel has talked to him a couple times since then, but not once has he mentioned anything about Christian’s safety—how much _does_ he care?

“Come on, Christian. We won’t take up much of your time. Fifteen minutes, tops.” Christian nods, and Max smiles. “You won’t regret it,” he says as he moves around toward the passenger side of the car.

Christian gets in, starts the car, and waits for directions.

* * *

Linda is walking down the hall, on her way to Andrea’s office, when a tall, thin man in a suit steps into her way, coughing lightly.

“Hello, Mrs. Tran. Could I have a few minutes of your time?” he asks.

“Sure,” Linda says. “What is this about?”

“Oh, I just have a few questions,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a badge to show her. “I’m Agent Kane, with the FBI, and I happened to be in town yesterday. I have concerns over the safety of a member of your staff, and I thought it’d be best to approach you on the subject.”

“Okay,” Linda says. “Would you like to come to my office? It’s—”

“Oh, no, this will only take a few minutes, and I’d really rather not make a fuss of it all,” Agent Kane says.

“All right. Who is it you’re talking about?”

“Dr. Dean Winchester.”

“Oh, really? What’s the matter?”

“He was abducted on Friday night,” Agent Kane says, and Linda can only stare at him in disbelief.

“But I just saw him, not more than twenty minutes ago,” she says.

“Yes—he was returned to his home yesterday.”

“I didn’t hear a word about it,” Linda says, thinking back. “I know Dean was sick the day before yesterday—that would’ve been Friday.”

“That is exactly why I’m worried,” Agent Kane says. “Dr. Winchester hasn’t reported this to the authorities because he’s protecting someone, and I can’t do anything to the perpetrators unless he chooses to report the crime and press charges.”

Linda nods. “You want a friend to convince him to change his mind,” she says.

“If you could, that would be very helpful to me. I want to catch these people.”

“They should be caught,” Linda agrees. “I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

“Cas!” Jimmy says as he enters the room. “You only just missed the girls.”

“That might’ve been intentional,” Cas says ruefully, shutting the door behind him and walking over to his brother’s bedside. “You doing okay?”

“Everyone asks me that when they come in,” Jimmy gripes.

“Yeah well, you look like shit.”

“Thanks. You don’t look so good yourself, asswipe.”

Cas just chuckles and pulls up a chair, looking over at the TV to see what Jimmy’s watching. It’s the local news, which is always boring as hell. But boring is a good thing—boring means that no one’s dead or dying, which in turn means that the club is holding up its end of the deal with this town.

“Thanks for getting Claire back,” Jimmy says softly.

“So they told you after all,” Cas says.

“Did you really think Claire would be able to keep a lid on it? She said tried to say that Dean _pulled a Batman_ ,” Jimmy says, failing to hold back a smile.

“That girl of yours is really something,” Cas says, smiling back. “But really, you’ve got no reason to thank me. Of course I wouldn’t let anyone take her without doing everything in my power to get her back.”

“I know,” Jimmy says. After a pause, he starts, “About Dean…”

“There’s nothing between me and him,” Cas says, and he’s almost surprised at how easily the lie falls from his lips. And holy shit, it _is_ a lie, he realizes, because while he doesn’t know what exactly is going on between Dean and himself, he knows that there’s _something_.

“You sure about that, brother? Claire seemed pretty convinced that Dean loves you.”

“She’s just a kid,” Cas says, trying to shake it off.

“Oh come on, that’s a crap excuse,” Jimmy says. “Kids are weirdly intuitive about this sort of emotional shit. They pick up on it easy because they don’t have all the inhibitions adults have.”

“Dean and I are not an item, and that’s it,” Cas says, hoping to end the conversation right there.

Jimmy is quiet for a long time, and then he says, “All right, fine. Just be careful, okay? I won’t judge you, whatever you decide.”

Cas just grunts and gets to his feet. “I’m gonna head out. You need anything? I could have one of the prospects smuggle in some porn for you.”

“God, no. Just go,” Jimmy says, laughing.

Cas manages a smile before exiting the room and heading down the hall.

It’s great that Jimmy wants to be supportive and all, but Cas doesn’t appreciate people leaping to conclusions about him, brother or not. It’s different with Limey because… well, because. Limey’s Limey. He and Cas understand each other. Jimmy may be Cas’s twin in appearance, but Limey is Cas’s twin in soul and spirit.

Cas is about to leave the hospital, lost in thought, when he remembers that he’s supposed to stop by and see Dean while he’s here. So he doubles back, making his way toward Dean’s office.

Upon turning the last corner, he sees Dean down at the opposite end of the hall, but his face has gone white, his jaw clenched tight. Before Cas can call out to him, he turns tail and disappears into his office. The only other people in the hallway are a hospital administrator and this guy in a suit, in the middle of a conversation.

A hand lands on Cas’s shoulder, stopping him from going toward Dean’s office, and he turns to see Deputy Henriksen standing just behind him. But instead of anger, he only looks worried, which means he must’ve seen the look on Dean’s face, too.

Dean wouldn’t have reacted to seeing either of them that way, and the hospital administrator has been working here for years, so it must be the guy in the suit.

Another look at Henriksen tells Cas that the deputy has reached the same conclusion, so Cas says, “I’m gonna talk to him.”

“No, wait,” Henriksen says. “I’ve seen him before—better let me take this one.”

“Okay, fine,” Cas says.

He goes down the hall, passing by the stranger as he does, and he’s surprised to find that the guy is taller than him by a lot. The man is clean-shaven, with a gaunt face and what seems like a wiry body under the suit. Who the hell is he?

Cas remembers Mom mentioning an ATF agent—could it be him?

But then Cas reaches Dean’s office and gently taps on the door before pushing it open, surprised to find it unlocked. Dean’s head shoots up as soon as Cas steps in, and he looks relieved when he sees that it’s only Cas—it’s as though he expected someone else, like the man from the hallway.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks, walking over to Dean’s desk.

“Everything’s fine,” Dean says.

“It didn’t _look_ like everything was fine,” Cas says. “I saw your face out there.”

“Cas, please—”

“Dean, don’t lie to me,” Cas interrupts.

“There… may have been another reason why I left Chicago,” Dean admits, looking away. “I don’t wanna get into it, Cas. Not now, at least. I’m not… fuck.”

“Dean,” Cas says, reaching out to touch the back of Dean’s hand where it rests on the desk. “talk to me.”

* * *

“I’ll see what I can do,” Linda says to the tall man as Victor walks up.

“Hello,” Victor says, startling them both—he’s pretty good at sneaking up on people, apparently. “Agent Kane, right?” he asks.

“Yes. And you’re Deputy Henriksen, unless I’m mistaken.”

“You are correct,” Victor says. “So, what brings you here to St. David’s?”

“Oh, I was just making some inquiries to do with the case. It’s none of your concern,” the agent responds. “I’m afraid I have an appointment to make elsewhere, so I’ll be going, now.” He nods to Linda before turning around and walking away.

Victor makes a mental note to ask Crowley about this semi-partner of his, because he’s acting really fucking weird. And now that he thinks about it, Crowley hasn’t even mentioned him before—he didn’t say a thing about collaborating with the FBI when they were talking just this morning.

This is _really_ shady.

“Deputy, that agent told me that there was a kidnapping—”

“I know,” Victor says. “You don’t have to worry about it, all right? It’s being handled.”

Linda frowns. “But he said that Dean wasn’t filing a report about it.”

“I know,” Victor repeats. “Filing a report isn’t gonna do anything against these people. Just—put it out of your head, all right, Linda? Everything’s gonna be fine. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again to anyone in this town.”

“Okay,” she says. “I’m trusting you on this, Victor.”

Victor nods and watches as Linda goes on down the hall. Then he turns and heads over to Dean’s office, to see if Cas has gotten anywhere with questioning Dean—Winchesters are stubborn as all hell.

He raps his knuckles on the door twice, and Dean says, “Come in.”

Victor enters the room and sees Cas standing in front of Dean’s desk, arms folded across his chest. Dean is seated in his chair, looking guarded.

“Everything okay?” Victor asks, glancing back and forth between them.

“Yeah,” Dean says.

“Kane was telling Linda about your kidnapping,” Victor says. “Did you tell him about it? Because given your reaction to seeing him, it seems like you know him, _and_ you didn’t want him to find out about it.”

“Okay, so maybe I knew him in Chicago,” Dean admits.

“Only knew him?” Cas presses.

“We were together for a while,” Dean says. “I tried to end it, but he wouldn’t stop stalking me, so I had to get a restraining order.”

“That fucker,” Cas hisses, anger flaring up in his eyes. “Did he hurt you?”

“Cas, you’ve gotta let me handle this,” Victor says, holding one hand up in case Cas gets any ideas about going after the agent right now. “He’s a federal agent. You beating him up isn’t gonna solve shit. But if Dean has a restraining order against him, then I can take care of it.”

“Well, you’d better,” Cas says lowly.

“Dude. I’m not some damsel in distress that you guys have to take care of,” Dean says.

Cas opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but his phone goes off, and he answers with, “What do you want?”

Since Dean’s attention is all on Cas, Victor takes the opportunity to look at him. He seems edgier than usual, probably because he saw Agent Kane in the hallway, and Victor wonders just what Dean went through in Chicago that had him going to get a restraining order. Dean is a pretty tough guy, physically, and Victor can’t imagine him being easily overpowered by the tall man out there. So maybe he did a number on Dean mentally. People can do all sorts of fucked up shit to each other’s minds.

“Fuck, I’ve gotta go,” Cas says.

“I’ll be fine here,” Dean says.

Cas still looks hesitant, so Victor says, “I could hang around here, maybe?”

“No, you’ve still got a town to defend,” Dean says, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’ll be fine, seriously. Go on, the both of you.”

“If you’re sure,” Victor says as Cas ducks his head and hurries out. “I could come by at the end of the day and give you a ride home.”

“Nah, I’ve got the Impala here. But if you really wanna escort me back, you could tail me home, and we could have a couple beers,” Dean says.

“Yeah, I guess we never did get to catch up,” Victor agrees.

“Okay. See you tonight, then.”

* * *

“A public defender stepped in for Jimmy because of his injury,” Julian says from his seat at the head of the table. “He reached out to me on Bill’s behalf and said that the parole hearing has been suspended, pending investigation of the murder.”

“Shit, Ellen’s not gonna be happy about that,” Bobby says.

“No, she isn’t,” Julian agrees. “And it gets worse. Bill says that they all know he killed the guy—the so-called investigation is all red tape, and we might as well kiss his parole goodbye now.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do about that? A judge or someone we can press?” Luce says.

“They have him on camera,” Julian says, shaking his head. “There isn’t much of a defense anyone can put together for him.”

“Can we do anything for him?” Bobby asks. “He’s in this mess because of us. Hell, he landed in jail in the first place protecting the club.”

“He needs some help on the inside,” Julian informs them. “He says he has reason to believe that Sorento has gone to his Russian buddies with this. They’ve already got a list of grievances a mile long against Bill, and this might just give them enough reason to act.”

“So we’ll buy him some protection,” Cas says.

“We’re gonna need a big stick to keep the Russians away,” Bobby says. “They’re obstinate as all hell.”

“It’s been a while, but I might still have an in with the Lin Triad,” Julian says. “They’ve got a couple guys doing life in Stockton.”

“Just asking for their help isn’t gonna do it—they don’t owe us any favors,” Cas says. “We’ll have to give them something in return.”

“We have some extra cash on our hands,” Julian says.

“I doubt it’ll be enough to buy protection, especially if it’s against the Russians. The Triad has no beef with them to begin with,” Aggie says.

“Well they’ve got no _public_ beef with the Russians,” Bobby points out. “They had dealings with them a couple years back—who knows what kinda shit happened between them, behind closed doors?”

“Regardless, this is still us asking them to put themselves in danger,” Aggie says.

“Who else are gonna go to, huh? The fuckin’ _Leviathans?_ ” Luce says.

“Would Pesty or Big Jimmy know anyone who could help?” Gabe asks.

“That’s a good thought, but any friends of theirs are friends of mine and Bill’s. If Bill is asking the club for help, that means he’s got no one else in there,” Julian says.

“Request a meet with Lin,” Cas says. “We’ve gotta at least _try_ talking to him.”

Julian gives Mike a nod of approval, so he gets to his feet and starts heading out of the room to make the call. “Do I have to call a vote on this?” Julian asks, belatedly.

No one speaks up.

* * *

Naomi has just found the keys to the beat-up Chevy in the garage for the girl who’s here to pick it up when there’s a rap on the open door, distracting her.

“Rufus, what’re you doing here?” she asks as she extracts the right sheet for the girl to sign. “Just on the dotted line, here,” she says.

“I was just dropping in to visit,” Rufus says, stepping into the office and taking a seat on the couch.

“Hey, Chief,” the girl says, passing the paper back to Naomi and holding a hand out for her keys.

Naomi double checks that everything is filled out before returning the keys to their owner. “You’re all set,” she says.

“Thank you.”

The girl exits the room, and Rufus stands up to close the door behind her.

“What’s going on?” Naomi asks, because Rufus looks pretty damn worried.

“You remember that ATF agent I told you about?”

“Crowley, right?”

“That’s the one. He’s onto the club. He was in Oakland, yesterday—Cas and Limey were being tailed, and they didn’t even know it,” Rufus says.

“You must be joking,” Naomi says. “How do you know this? Has he been talking to you?”

“No—he won’t tell me shit. But he’s cozying up to my deputy, and to—to—”

“To who?” Naomi asks, annoyed.

“Sam. Sam Winchester,” Rufus says.

Oh god, that poor kid. Naomi still can’t think of him without getting a little ache in her chest—Sam and Dean were practically her sons, once. She, Mary, and Ellen had had an unspoken agreement to take care of each other’s children—and Limey, since he was motherless—should the worst happen.

It’s easy for Naomi to be angry with Dean because he left the club and broke Cas’s heart doing it, the ungrateful, heartless son of a bitch. But none of it was Sam’s fault, and Naomi can’t help but feel guilty toward Mary when she thinks of them, because they’d always understood each other, as mothers and as old ladies. She knows that Ellen took care of them when Naomi couldn’t anymore, but it’s a sore spot.

Now, though, Naomi guesses it was only a matter of time before Sam turned on the club completely. It’s disappointing, but not really surprising.

“So Sam is working with the ATF,” Naomi says.

“I’m afraid he is,” Rufus says. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” Naomi hesitates for a moment before moving toward the door. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going to church, and you’re gonna tell the club everything you know.”

“Isn’t it against the rules for us to go in there?” Rufus asks.

“This is about the ATF. I’m sure they’ll make an exception,” Naomi says, leading the way out of the office.

They cross the lot over to the clubhouse, and Naomi goes straight to the chapel, knocking three times on the door and waiting for an answer. Mike is standing by the bar, on the phone, and he looks at her questioningly. She just waves at him dismissively, letting him know that this isn’t an emergency.

Limey is the one who opens the door. He immediately turns back and says to the others, “It’s Naomi and the chief.”

Before anyone can say anything, Naomi takes a step forward, leaning a bit to the side so that she can see more of the room. “It’s important,” she says. “You’ll want to hear it.”

“All right,” she hears Jules say a few seconds later. “Let them in.”

Limey steps back and returns to his seat, and Naomi enters the room. She’s been inside before, but never during church, because Rufus was right—it _is_ against the rules for anyone other than a patch member to attend church. The guys look a little uneasy, and Naomi wonders whether it’s because of her entrance or because of whatever they were discussing beforehand. She knows from Jules that Bill’s in danger, so it makes sense for the guys to be unhappy.

“What is it?” Jules asks.

When Rufus doesn’t speak up immediately, Naomi says, “Go on; tell ‘em.”

“Agent Crowley from the ATF is watching you guys,” Rufus says. “He was there in Oakland yesterday, and he saw Cas and Limey getting Dean and Claire back from the ‘Nines.”

“What?” Cas says. “That’s not possible.”

“I didn’t notice anyone following us,” Limey says. “But I was also a little distracted.”

“Claire was missing. You were both distracted,” Aggie says, and Naomi wonders if she should count her blessings that he left Dean out entirely.

“He says that he saw one of the Lafitte twins giving up Dean and Claire,” Rufus says slowly, and Naomi turns to stare at him, because he didn’t mention that earlier.

“Is that the truth?” Jules asks eventually, and Naomi sees that his eyes are fixed on Cas.

“Yeah,” Limey says, drawing everyone’s attention. “Yeah, that was how it went down. We got a call from them asking to meet up, and Benny dropped them off.”

“Benny Lafitte?” Luce says. “That makes no goddamn sense. He’s a bloodthirsty son of a bitch.”

“You’re one to talk,” Gabe mutters.

“Hey, I never said it was a bad thing,” Luce responds.

“He gave them up because Dean saved Eli,” Cas says, returning to the topic at hand. “I shot him as I was going down, but I’m guessing he made it to Oakland alive.”

“All right, so the ATF agent tailed them to Oakland,” Jules says. “Anything else you’d like to tell us, Chief?”

“He said that he was gonna go talk to Famine next,” Rufus answers. “That’s all I know.”

“Okay,” Jules says. “You can see yourselves out, then.”

Naomi only just stops herself from bringing up Sam, because god, she doesn’t know what the club will do to him if she puts it on the table now. Better to tell Jules in private, so that they can discuss what the best course of action is. Whether or not Sam is working with the enemy now, Naomi doesn’t want him to _die_.

She and Rufus exit the chapel, and Limey grabs the door behind them.

“Well, I oughta go back out on patrol. I’ll see you,” Rufus says as they leave the clubhouse.

“All right. Thank you, Rufus.”

The police chief flashes a smile back at Naomi before heading over to his squad car. Naomi watches him drive away before returning to the office. She’s got paperwork to do.

* * *

As soon as the door is closed and Limey takes his seat, Luce says, “This is really bad.”

“Yeah, you think?” Limey says. “If he’s a fed, he’ll have no trouble getting in to see Bill.”

“Bill would never rat,” Bobby puts in. When he looks over at Jules for corroboration, he gets a nod but no verbal response. He goes on, “There’s nothing connecting the murder to the club, anyway.”

“Actually, this might be a good thing,” Cas says.

“ _How?_ ” Luce says.

“It buys us some time to get Bill’s protection in place. If the feds are interested in him, then they’ll do their best to make sure he stays alive,” Cas says, and it makes sense. “With any luck, they’ll put him in solitary confinement. It’ll be a lot harder for the ‘Nines or the Russians to get to him then.”

“Well sure, but the feds going in to talk to Bill is bad,” Limey says.

“As long as Bill doesn’t talk back, we’re gonna be fine,” Cas responds.

The door swings open, and Mike steps back in. “Darren Chan is able to meet up with us this afternoon, two hours from now, if we’re willing to ride out to San Francisco,” he reports as he takes his seat between Limey and Luce.

“All right,” Jules says. “Let him know we’re in.” Mike nods and whips his phone back out, presumably to send a text. “Cas, Bobby, Luce, and Gabe, you’re coming with me,” Jules says. “Nomads, you’re welcome to come, if you’d like.”

“We’ll ride with you,” Raph says.

“Good,” Jules says. “And the rest of you, get to work in the shop, seeing as it’s your ‘real’ job.”

This gets a few amused huffs from the men at the table. Then Jules brings the gavel down to end the session, and they all push away from the table. Bobby figures they oughta get on the road now, if they wanna get to San Francisco on time.

It’s a little disappointing that Lin didn’t want to meet with them directly, but then, he usually avoids being there for first contact—supposedly he was set up a few times too many, so he’s wary about meeting in person, no matter who is trying to contact him.

Chan is his right hand man, so it’ll have to do.

* * *

The guard opens the door for Sorento at the time they’d agreed upon, and he enters the almost-empty hallway. It’s vacant except for a figure at the far end, mopping the floor.

Sorento steps to the side to let Thing One and Thing Two—he’s never bothered to learn their names, and they prefer the anonymity anyway—pass, and then the guard lets the door fall closed. Famine glances back over his shoulder at them but continues his work, seemingly unfazed.

Sorento knows better, though. When a man has been on the inside as long as he and Famine have, he knows when he’s being targeted. Famine is likely planning the best way to get out of this hallway alive. But Sorento doesn’t want him dead.

No, he just wants him to pay.

Famine lets Thing One and Thing Two get right behind him before lashing out, shoving Thing One against the opposite wall. Thing Two grabs onto Famine’s shoulder, but Famine gives him a quick fist to the gut, making him double over. Then Famine is on Thing One, shoving his forearm against the man’s thick throat.

Thing Two grabs Famine from behind, dragging him backwards, but he gets an elbow to the ribs and a skull to his nose. There’s a cracking sound, and blood sprays from Thing Two’s face. But Thing One lands several blows to Famine’s face while Thing Two has him restrained, and at length, they shove him to the ground, Thing One practically sitting on him to keep him pinned down.

Famine spits blood up into Thing One’s face and gets another punch in the face in retaliation.

“Hold it,” Sorento says, because he knows the Things get murderous about insults. Fights are fine, but spitting is crossing a line, for them. “We’re not killing him. Not today,” he reminds them.

They stay still, mercifully, and Sorento steps around them to pick up Famine’s discarded mop. He takes a knee, and Thing Two holds Famine’s head still for him.

“This is for Quentin,” Sorento says, flipping the mop so that the handle faces down, hovering over Famine’s left eye. The man stiffens when he realizes Sorento’s intention, but he can’t wriggle free.

Sorento closes his eyes and prays silently for Quentin’s soul to rest, and then he prays for forgiveness, even though he knows that he doesn’t deserve it, that he lost any chance for salvation long ago. Then he looks down at the man who killed his friend and shoves the mop handle down.

Screams echo throughout the hall, and Sorento waits for the guards to come running.

* * *

Dad’s cronies come back into the room with news that Dad is busy and won’t be coming back until tonight, and that he wants Kevin to come back another time. He doesn’t even bother arguing with them, just storms out of the back of Dad’s restaurant and heads straight for his car, fuming.

Busy, his ass. Dad has been avoiding him. He’s missed their “appointments” for a whole goddamn month already. This certainly isn’t the first time Kevin has driven all the way out to the City only to be told to go home because his dad was too _busy_ to even allow him the courtesy of a fucking _phone call_.

Once inside his car, he grabs his phone to track his dad down—he got a hold of Dad’s phone a while back and turned on the GPS, and if he knows his dad, those settings haven’t changed since.

Sure enough, he locates Dad only a ten minute drive away, by the wharfs.

If Dad won’t come to Kevin, then Kevin can only go to him.

Just over ten minutes later, Kevin jogs across Embarcadero and toward the warehouse that Dad owns out here—he doesn’t know what exactly Dad stores there, but he knows that it isn’t legal.

Before he can reach the warehouse, though, he sees a group of bikers pulling up, cuts and all. Seeing as Dad is supposedly out on business, these are probably people coming to meet up with him, and Kevin should stay the hell out of it. So he pretends that he’s just passing by and continues walking, glancing back over his shoulder curiously—he figures that much is okay, since other passersby are also looking at the newcomers with surprise.

It takes a moment for Kevin to recognize them—he hasn’t seen the local MC all that often, so he can’t be blamed for not noticing at first sight. One of them turns his back, though, and the logo is unmistakable. These are the Reapers. What the hell are they doing in the City, meeting up with Dad?

What if Dad is trying to reach into Morada? But that shit wouldn’t fly with the Reapers. One of their big rules is no drugs, anywhere in Morada, and Kevin’s dad deals in some form of narcotics.

Whatever it is, Kevin figures he should get outta here, maybe ask Mom about it. She doesn’t like talking about Dad, but what if this has something to do with them? There’s not really a reason for Dad to be interested in Morada, unless it has to do with Mom and Kevin. Ah, shit.

* * *

“Hello, Jules,” Chan says when they’re shown into the warehouse.

“This place is kinda conspicuous, don’t you think?” Jules says.

“Hiding in plain sight,” Chan responds, and Jules nods. “So, Mike says that you have something for me.”

“I have a request,” Jules says. “We need you to get a message to Lin.”

“Lin’s dead,” Chan says, and wow— _wow_. How has that shit not hit the streets? Luce hasn’t ever been involved in the drug trade, but it can’t operate that differently from any other business. When the leader dies, there’s gotta be _some_ sort of sign.

“I’m sorry,” Jules says. “When did it happen?”

“A week ago,” Chan says. “He’s already been cremated.”

“We’re all sorry for your loss,” Jules says.

“It’s all right,” Chan responds. “I’m running the Triad now, so you can make your request directly to me.”

“I need a favor from the Triad. You have people on the inside of most places, and I have a man in Stockton Yard who needs some protection against the ‘Nines.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“They may have reached out to the Russians for help,” Jules adds.

Chan’s face gets harder to read at that, and Luce hates to admit it, but maybe Bobby was right about the Chinese and the Russians running into disagreements a while back. “I can look into it,” he says eventually. “But I’ll need a favor from you in return.”

“Anything we can do,” Jules says.

“Lin’s killer needs to be caught and brought to the Triad,” Chan says.

“I thought you took care of your own business on the streets,” Jules says.

“The people responsible on the streets have been taken care of,” Chan answers, “but they were just puppets. There are men behind the scenes, pulling the strings, and I can’t get to them. The feds have been up our asses for the past couple of weeks, and it’ll be way too obvious if anyone catches sight of a couple Asians offing the guy.”

“But if it’s a couple o’ white guys, they’ll probably think it was a random hit,” Jules supplies.

Grinning, Chan says, “You all look the same.”

That makes Luce laugh, because seriously? The four—no, five guys standing behind Chan all look pretty much the same to him.

“Fair enough,” Jules responds. “Who’s the mark?”

“Marvin Buckner,” Chan says. “He’s a local judge. Don’t ask why he killed Henry—it doesn’t matter why. All that matters is that he pay for what he did.”

“Do you want him dead or alive?”

“Just bring me his head,” Chan answers.

“Classy,” Luce comments.

Chan frowns at him, but before he can reply, Jules says, “Not a problem. You tell us where and when to find him, and we’ll take him out.”

That’s—a bad idea. Even Luce knows that. He’s usually all for violence, and he’d have no problem at all killing a guy to keep Famine safe, but the ATF is looking into the club. It’s a _bad_ time to be killing people.

But Jules and Chan are shaking hands, and when Luce looks around at his brothers, they all seem calm enough. He’s willing to bet Bobby’s fuming about this, though. He’s always the one dragging his feet when it comes to the hard calls, the ones that require bloodshed. The old man has _way_ too many hang-ups.

Chan says that he’ll look into securing Bill’s protection, and after thanking him, Jules leads the way back out of the warehouse.

“Jules, this is not good,” Bobby says, predictably.

“We’ll discuss it when we get back,” Jules says, swinging a leg over his bike.

”It’s gotta happen,” Luce says in a low voice as he and Bobby walk over to their bikes. “We’ll just do the deed and mark the body with a gang symbol. It’s not as though this is the first time.”

Bobby responds with a disapproving look, so Luce just shrugs and mounts his own bike.

* * *

Victor really does show up to escort Dean home, knight in friggin’ shining armor that he is, and as much as Dean insists that it isn’t really necessary, it does make him feel safer. Even better, Victor says that he spoke with Alastair’s handler in Chicago, and he’s not even supposed to be out here—he’s not working a case at all. So the next time Alastair comes anywhere near Dean, he’ll be in direct violation of that restraining order, and Victor will be able to kick him out of town.

Thank fucking _god_.

Dean lets himself into his house and waves at Victor’s squad car to let him know that it’s okay to leave before shutting the door. But then he turns around and realizes that hey, maybe that was a bad idea, because there’s an intruder sitting on his living room couch, waiting for him.

“What the hell are you doing here, Naomi?” he demands.

“I heard some disturbing news about your baby brother today,” Naomi says. “You should tell him to be careful and stay out of this if he wants to live.”

“Believe me, I’ve tried telling him to steer clear of the Reapers. But he’s a Winchester. You know us—we’re as stubborn as they come.”

“Yeah,” Naomi says quietly. “That you are.”

After a pause, Dean asks, “Why’d you come here, Naomi? Why do you even care?” To Dean’s surprise, something almost like _hurt_ flashes across Naomi’s features, and he can’t resist adding, “I thought you never wanted anything to do with us anymore. Why would you care whether Sam lives or dies?”

“Have you forgotten our history? I loved Mary, and John, and you—both of you.”

“Don’t you dare start with that crap.”

“Are you gonna call me a liar? We raised you together, the five of you,” Naomi says. “You were like a son to me.”

“Yeah well, you’re the one who pushed me out.”

“Did you honestly think I wanted you to leave? It broke my heart to see you go, Dean.”

“You are _really_ good at bullshitting, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t think you would do it,” Naomi confesses. “You were always one to talk big. I didn’t expect you to actually pack your bags and go, just like that. But Dean, even if you don’t believe that I loved you, you have to believe that I love Cas.”

“What, you trying to tell me that you kicked me out because of _Cas?_ ” Dean says, incredulous. He’d never really known why Naomi was so adamant on him joining the club but he hadn’t ever thought that it had to do with Cas.

Now, he wonders if he should have known.

“No. No, I wanted you to commit because of Cas. I sensed that you’d try to leave, so I wanted to stop you before you could,” Naomi says.

“Well yeah, I got that much. But Cas doesn’t have anything to do with me leaving.”

“He has _everything_ to do with it. I only pressed you because I knew how much you leaving would hurt him.” Naomi sighs, and she sounds so tired, done. “I know you’re not stupid. Even if you didn’t know then, you have to know by now.”

“Know what?” Dean snaps.

Naomi glares at him. “ _Know what?_ ” she repeats angrily. “Know what you leaving did to Cas.”

Dean turns away, because this has gone on long enough. “Just tell me what you want now, other than keeping my little brother out of Morada.”

“I want to know what you’re doing—what you want from Cas.”

“I don’t want anything from Cas.”

“Now _that_ is bullshit.”

Before Dean can argue, there’s a loud knock on the door, and he jumps nearly a foot in the air. “Jesus _Christ_ ,” he swears, swiveling around and leaning over to look through the peephole. Thankfully, it’s Cas and not Alastair standing on his doorstep, so he pulls the door open.

“Hey,” Cas says, but he frowns when he sees the look on Dean’s face. “Did I come at a bad time?”

“No. I was just having a heart to heart with your mother,” Dean says.

When Dean steps aside to let Cas in, he sees that Naomi has gotten to her feet and come over to the door, like she’s ready to leave.

“What’re you doing here, Mom?” Cas asks. But he doesn’t give her time to respond before continuing, “What goes on between me and Dean is none of your business—you shouldn’t be here, and you should leave, now.”

Dean sucks in a breath, surprised at the severity in Cas’s tone, and waits for Naomi to explode.

But she only glares at Cas for a long moment before edging past him, leaving the house and slamming the door behind her. Dean and Cas are left standing in the hallway together, avoiding each other’s eyes.

“I just wanted to make sure you got home okay,” Cas finally says, breaking the silence.

“Oh. Thanks,” Dean says, chancing a glance up.

“Did that asshole show up looking for you?”

“No. Everything’s fine,” Dean says. “Victor said that the restraining order is still in full effect here, so he can’t come near me.”

“Okay, good.”

After another pause, Dean says, “How about you? It sounded like an emergency, earlier today. Is everything okay with uh, the club, and all?”

“We’re as good as we always are,” Cas says wryly.

They fall silent again, and Dean tries to think of something—anything—to say. It feels as though he wants to tell Cas everything that’s happened to him over the past few years, wants to hear about Cas’s life in return.

But he doesn’t know if they’re there yet, doesn’t know if they’re ready for that. This is all still so new, and the last thing Dean wants is for it all to crumble before it even starts.

“Do you want me to stay the night?” Cas asks, tone neutral.

“Uh—no, I’ll be fine,” Dean says. “Really, Cas. I don’t need a big bad biker to keep me safe at night.”

Cas chuckles. “Okay, I’ll head home, then. If you need anything—”

“I’ll call you,” Dean says.

“Yeah.”

Cas turns around and pulls the door open, and Dean—can’t just let him walk away like that. So he grabs Cas by the elbow and spins him around, surprised by how easily Cas lets himself be moved. He pulls Cas in for a kiss, quick and chaste, and then backs off, trying not to feel like a third grader kissing his crush.

“You…” Cas starts, pausing to lick his lips, and then he shakes his head. “I’ve uh, I’m gonna go.”

“Okay,” Dean says, a little disappointed despite himself, but then Cas leans in for another kiss, this one longer, slower, and Dean feels like his chest is burning, heat rolling up through him.

Cas pulls away far too soon, and Dean is left hanging, wanting more.

“Good night,” Cas says lowly, winking, and oh, that _bastard_.

Then he’s turning away, heading for his bike, and Dean just stands in the doorway and watches, because goddamn, Cas looks amazing in that cut, from the front and the back. He settles onto his bike and puts his helmet on, glancing up at the house as he clasps the straps together under his chin.

Dean waves once, and Cas lifts his hand in response before straightening the bike and starting it up.

When Cas is gone, Dean backs into the house, closes the door, and leans against it. He licks his lips, and maybe it’s just his imagination, but he thinks he can taste Cas still lingering there, shit. He almost wishes he’d asked for Cas to stay the night, but that’d be going too fast for both of them, probably. Seeing Alastair today shook Dean more than he’d thought it would, and the last thing he needs to be doing right now is having sex.

He needs time—they _both_ need time. And they’ll have it, as long as they can be patient with each other. Dean isn’t sure where they’re headed, but he has faith that they’ll get there, wherever it is.


	9. The Unclouded Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reapers take out the judge that Chan wanted dead, but two of them are spotted in the process. Victor finds Alastair and escorts him out of Morada on the grounds of violating Dean's restraining order against him, but in doing so, he unknowingly pushes Alastair into action. Crowley scrambles to find anything he can use against the club. A Campbell trailer goes up in smoke, landing one of the family members in the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about missing last month's posting date! I started panicking about DCBB (but eyyy I turned in my draft on time), and since then I've been trying to work on TFW BB and maybe updating some other things too, so. I've also started studying for my first actuarial exam, which is gonna take up some of my writing time. Ohhh man.
> 
> But anyway, I will do my absolute best not to miss any more updates. Thanks for your patience!
> 
> (On an unrelated note, I'm thinking about filling in brief chapter summaries for this fic. Might do that tonight, or maybe tomorrow...)
> 
> [ **Edit:** As an afterthought, I figured I'd mention that there are quite a few nods to SoA plot points in this chapter, so if you semi-recognize a scene, it was most likely intentional, haha. Also, this chapter clocked in at about 19,500 words, like dude this was basically a big bang right here o.o]
> 
> [ **Edit the 2nd:** I got a comment asking for the character list, so [here it is](http://imnotleavinherewithoutyou.tumblr.com/post/97634289595/) in all its glory, with some characters that haven't appeared yet grayed out. SPN names and SoA counterparts are included. Scroll to the bottom of the post for my notes. I'll make a finalized cast post when the fic is over, and I'll probably repeat this link in the notes for Ch. 10 as well, for people who've already read this chapter and thus missed this edit. ANYWAY. General note to anyone who's made it this far: YOU'RE A SURVIVOR! I'm proud of you. And thank you so much for sticking with this madness.
> 
> ...It's kind of late so I'm rambling. Sorry.]

It’s a quiet neighborhood, especially at nine in the morning, when the kids are at school and most adults at work. There’s a trial starting at ten o’clock, which means the judge will be leaving in a couple minutes. Limey is parked across the street from the house, waiting. Cas and Bobby have circled around to the back already, just in case anything goes wrong and the judge tries to escape that way. Luce is sitting in the passenger seat, humming something that sounds dreadful because the guy’s tone deaf.

“Cut that out,” Limey says irritably.

Luce carries on for another ten seconds before stopping. “Oh, if you insist,” he says.

Limey works the silencer onto the muzzle of his gun and says, “C’mon. We should go.”

“Don’t you think it’ll be easier if we wait ‘til he’s outside?”

“The longer we’re parked here, the more likely someone’s gonna notice. Come on,” Limey says, getting out of the car.

“Limey!” Luce hisses in protest, but Limey just heads straight across the street, knowing that Luce will follow. The sooner they get this over with, the better.

They reach the front door without incident and take up positions on either side of it. Limey looks over to make sure that Luce is ready before reaching out and rapping twice on the hard wood. Behind the door, Limey faintly hears footsteps coming toward them and prepares himself. He’d been nervous on the drive out, some part of him terrified that he wouldn’t be able to do this, but now… his heart may be racing, but his hands are steady.

The door swings open, and Limey steps forward immediately, gun pointed at the man’s chest. His eyes go wide with alarm, but Limey doesn’t even give him enough time to make a sound—a bullet to the chest, and the judge drops to his knees, uncomprehending. He falls to the floor between Limey and Luce, and Luce draws a hatchet.

Limey’s just grateful that he’s not the one who has to do the actual beheading.

“Papa?” a voice calls from just inside the door, and Limey’s head shoots up in time to see a kid watching them.

“Shit. Shit, Luce, we gotta move,” he says, reaching out to grab at the shoulder of Luce’s hoodie even as he starts backing away.

“It’s just a kid,” Luce says, but then said kid takes a few steps out of sight and reemerges with a _gun_ , which—holy fucking _shit_ —

Limey makes another grab for Luce and then books it toward the car. The gun goes off once, just barely missing his left arm, and goddammit, that’ll draw the attention of anyone who’s still at home. As Limey rounds the hood of the car, the gun goes off again, and Luce cries out. Limey gets into the driver’s seat as Luce crawls into the back, and when he looks over at the house, he sees the kid running out of the house, gun still pointed at them.

“Oh, fuck,” Limey says, starting the car and pulling away from the curb.

“We can’t just leave Cas and Bobby,” Luce groans, voice strained.

“You okay?” Limey asks.

“No, I’m _not_ okay,” Luce says tightly. “He fucking shot me!”

Limey goes around the corner and up the block to the next street, turning right in the hopes that Cas and Bobby will have been smart enough not to run to the front. After all, when Limey looked at the front of the house, he hadn’t caught sight of either of them.

Sure enough, Cas and Bobby come running out onto the sidewalk when Limey passes by the back of the judge’s house. Cas hops into the front seat while Bobby gets in back with Luce, and as soon as the doors are closed, Limey stomps on the gas.

“What the _fuck_ happened?” Cas demands.

“Judge had a kid,” Limey says. “He pulled a gun on us and shot Luce.”

“Wait—you got shot by a _kid?_ ” Bobby says.

“He shot me in the ass,” Luce says. “Goddammit, who shoots a guy in the _ass?_ ”

Cas and Bobby actually laugh at that, and Limey allows himself a huff of amusement, now that they’ve put some distance between themselves and that house. “Hey, he _was_ a hell of a lot shorter than you,” Limey comments.

“Ah, fuck. You guys were supposed to be watching out for us,” Luce says.

“Well yeah, at the _back_ door. The kid came outta the front, didn’t he?” Bobby points out.

“You doing okay back there?” Cas asks.

“Ugh, _no_. I just got shot in the ass by a kindergartener,” Luce complains.

“Well it can’t be that bad, if you’re griping like usual,” Bobby says.

“Is he bleeding a lot?” Limey asks.

“Nah, not really,” Bobby answers. “The slug’s probably plugging up the wound. We gotta get him back to the clubhouse to remove the bullet—we definitely don’t have the supplies to take care of him in the car.”

“Oh, this is gonna suck balls,” Luce says.

He groans, long and loud, and Limey is about to ask him to shut up when there’s a thwacking sound, followed by silence.

“Did you seriously just—” Cas starts, and when Limey looks in the rearview mirror, he sees that Bobby’s cradling his right hand.

“It’s quieter this way,” Bobby responds casually. When Cas and Limey remain silent, he adds, “At least he won’t be in pain.”

Limey just shakes his head, maneuvering them toward the highway. “What’re we gonna do now, then?” he asks. “We got the job done, but we still need the guy’s head for Chan.”

“Chan’s just gonna have to be disappointed,” Cas says. “We killed the guy—that’s the important part. The head was just a trophy. The judge’s death will be in the news, and that should be proof enough for him.”

* * *

Victor arrives at the motel that one of the patrol officers directed him to, and sure enough, Agent Kane’s car is parked out front. He double-checks the plate numbers before heading in to the front office and asking for Agent Kane’s room number. The owner takes one look at the badge pinned to Victor’s chest before digging out the log to find it for him, and less than five minutes later, Victor climbs up the stairs and raps on the door to room 208.

“Deputy,” the agent says when he opens the door. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Save it. You know why I’m here,” Victor says.

“And why would that be?”

“Dean Winchester,” Victor responds. “Yesterday, you violated his restraining order against you, so I’m gonna have to ask you to leave town.”

“You consider Dean to be your friend, yes?” Kane says.

“Yes, but that’s irrelevant. You need to leave.”

“You think that I am a threat to his safety, but you couldn’t be further from the truth,” Kane goes on. “Dean is in danger even as we speak, and the closer he gets to that biker gang, the direr his situation will become. All I want is to keep him safe from them. I am not the enemy, here.”

“Correction: you’re not the _only_ enemy here,” Victor says. “I know that getting too close to Reapers MC is bad for him, but you’re not good for him, either. Now are you gonna get packing, or do I have to break out the handcuffs?”

Kane looks him in the eye for a moment, probably trying to discern whether or not he’s bluffing, before turning away and saying, “Very well. But you’re making a mistake, Deputy.”

As he drags a suitcase across the floor and starts putting things away, Victor says, “Make it quick. I have somewhere to be in less than an hour.”

* * *

Pain is a strange thing. It used to hold so much sway over him; his fear of it once dictated so many of his decisions. But the same decisions he made to avoid pain usually just led him into worse—more painful—situations later, and William has become accustomed to it, now.

Having his eye gouged out, though, probably trumps any other pain he’s ever felt in his life, and he nearly lost his leg in ‘Nam.

Fortunately, the hospital is well-stocked in painkillers, and William can’t actually feel anything, anywhere in his body. The dulled sensations all around are slightly discomforting, but that discomfort is nothing compared to the thought of how much agony he’ll be in when the effects wear off.

He doesn’t want to be conscious for that.

“Hello, Mr. Harvelle,” says an unfamiliar voice.

William keeps his eye closed because he doesn’t want to speak, but that won’t stop the intruder from speaking to him.

“I was sorry to hear about your eye,” the man says. “I was preparing to put you into isolation, but it seems they got to you before I could.”

Silently, William wonders when he’ll see Ellen again. Maybe the powers that be will take pity and let her in to visit him again, now that he’s lost an eye.

Fat chance. People have no compassion for inmates. What kindness they do show is usually a ploy, a manipulation. William has no patience for false sympathy.

“Mr. Harvelle, are you listening?”

“Leave me alone,” William answers.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that—not yet.”

“Who are you, and what do you want from me?” William finally asks, opening his good eye and turning his head a little so that he can see the man— _men_ , apparently, because another stranger is standing a few feet behind the speaker.

“I’m Agent Crowley from the ATF,” the first man says. “I would like to speak with you regarding the MC that likes to call you its friend—the Reapers.”

“And you say ‘likes to call’ because you don’t think I am a friend of the MC,” William says. He is tired of this. Every time something happens, a new agent gets sent over to try and pry his jaw open, get him to spill his secrets.

“I think that _you_ think you’re a friend of the MC, that you’d get your patch right back if only you could get past these walls. But do the Reapers truly consider you one of their own? They were the ones who asked for you to kill Quentin Clayton. They should’ve anticipated that it would blow back on you, and from what I understand of your _culture_ , the club is supposed to protect its own. I doubt it would’ve been past the Reapers’ capabilities to arrange for you to get some protection.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” William says. “The club had no beef with Quentin—that was my call. The boy had it coming, if you ask me. Arrogant little shit.”

“You had a visit from your wife right before you killed Quentin, and I have it on good authority that she and the club are still on good terms. Do you mean to say it was a coincidence that you just _happened_ to kill Quentin, right after a talk with your wife?”

“My wife’s got nothing to do with any of this shit,” William says. He tries his best to glare at the agent, but the white patch over his bad eye probably isn’t doing him any favors. “I make my own choices. No one dictates what I do or don’t do,” he goes on. “Not the club, not even my wife, and _certainly_ not you.”

“I’m not trying to dictate anything,” the agent protests.

“Yes, you are,” William says firmly. “You want me to link the murder to the Reapers. But you can’t draw connections where there are none. Now leave me in peace.”

He closes his eyes when he finishes speaking, because that is all he will say on the matter. Agent Crowley seems to sense this, because the next things William hears are footsteps leading out of the room, followed by the quiet click of the door closing.

* * *

It’s hot in the trailer, always is. Mark has been trying to get his family to spring for an air conditioning unit here, because it’s fucking _unbearable_ to work when it’s this hot, but Samuel keeps turning him down, saying that it’s a waste of resources.

Easy for _him_ to fucking say. He’s not the one who’s gotta cook crank in this ridiculous heat.

Annoyed, Mark walks out of the trailer because he needs a couple minutes of fresh air. Just a few minutes, and then he’ll go inside and get back to work.

Walking out into the trees around the trailer, Mark lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. A light breeze picks up, and he spreads his arms out to either side, tipping his head back and letting the wind cool him off.

When he finishes his smoke, he heads back toward the trailer, feeling a hell of a lot better about things. But before he can even pull the door open, the trailer blows, and Mark is thrown backward in a blast of smoke and fire. His head hits the ground hard, and he knows no more.

* * *

Boris picks up after three rings and says, “Joe, I wasn’t expecting a call from you.”

Joseph says, “I was told to give you a heads up: we’ve started moving on the Campbells in Lodi.”

After a pause, Boris answers, “That’s good news.”

“We chose a den right on the border of Morada and Lodi to start, and we used a homemade explosive.”

“The Reapers’ MO,” Boris says immediately. “You’re going to point the first move at the Reapers to keep the heat off yourselves. That’s—clever.”

Joseph grins at the compliment, because this was his idea, after all. Most of the others had wanted to move on all of the dens at once, but Joseph was able to convince them that taking the Campbells out slowly at first would be better, especially if they thought the Reapers were the ones moving in on them. It’d be great if the Campbells could take out one or two of the Reapers before the Leviathans even started the campaign to take Morada.

By the time the Campbells realize the _real_ threat to their position in Lodi, it’ll be too late for them to fight back.

“Yes, well. You tell Alpha he allied with the right club.”

“I will,” Boris says.

Joseph almost asks when the ‘Nines will be coming—the beginning of attacks against the Campbells should be enough to convince them of the Leviathans’ conviction, after all, but he knows better than to press. The last thing they want is to scare the ‘Nines out of this deal. They’re going to need them to take down the Reapers.

So Joseph just says, “I’ll keep you posted,” and hangs up.

* * *

The Lodi PD are already there when Rufus pulls up by the smoking remnants of what used to be a trailer home. There’s an ambulance being loaded up, and Rufus gets out of the squad car to see what’s going on. The explosion happened right on the border, so jurisdiction isn’t clear yet.

“No bodies,” the nearest officer reports to him. “There’s just that guy there. He was unconscious when we arrived on the scene.”

Rufus walks over to get a better look at the man and says, “I know him. He’s—” Mark Campbell, his mind supplies, but he isn’t sure. So he finishes, “He lives in Morada. Take him to St. David’s.”

“I’ll tell the driver,” the officer says, jogging around to the other side of the ambulance.

Rufus turns away and heads closer to the wreckage, wrinkling his nose because it smells like shit.

“They were cooking crank here,” one of the police officers says as he passes.

“Yeah, I could tell from the smell,” Rufus responds. “Any idea who might’ve set off the explosion?”

“Too early to tell,” the officer says. “Looked like a homemade bomb, though. Hard to trace.”

Rufus nods—it’s just as he suspected. “Thanks,” he says. “You should probably take this one, since you’ve got a lab up there. Just keep me in the loop when the results come in.”

The officer nods. “I’ll relay that to our chief.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Rufus says as he walks back to his car.

He gets into the car and drives back into town, heading straight for Morton-Novak because he thought that he made this very clear with Jules already—no more blowing shit up within Morada borders.

* * *

Gabe has just walked out of the clubhouse with a mug of hot coffee in hand when a squad car pulls up onto the lot. He recognizes the driver as the chief, but it’s impossible for a police car to drive up in front of him and _not_ raise his hackles.

It doesn’t help that Chief Turner looks _furious_.

“Hey, Chief!” Gabe says as cheerfully as he can manage. “What’s going on?”

“Outta my way, boy,” Chief Turner growls, heading toward the door.

Gabe frowns and turns around to go right back inside, because if something’s going down, like hell is he gonna stand outside and wait. Inside, Aggie is in the process of making a fresh pot of coffee, and the Nomads are lingering around the bar, relaxed. They straighten up, wary, when the chief enters the room.

Turner looks around the room before heading for the chapel, presumably to find Jules, and Gabe grabs onto his arm before he can get too far—they made an exception for him the one time, but he can’t just go barging into that room whenever he feels like it.

“Get your president out here. I have something to discuss with him,” Turner says.

Frowning, Gabe says, “Yeah, all right. Just stay here.”

He glances over at Aggie as he crosses the room and gets a nod in response, confirmation that this is what he ought to be doing. So he knocks once on the door before pushing it open and sees Jules and Mike seated at the table, quiet.

“The chief’s here looking for you, Jules.”

“All right,” Jules says, getting to his feet. Mike follows him out of the room, and Gabe shuts the door behind both of them.

“You just couldn’t resist, could you?” Chief Turner says, walking over so that he’s right up in Jules’s face.

“Couldn’t resist what?” Jules asks, calm as ever, and Gabe has to wonder what the chief is talking about—it’s impossible that Cas and them could’ve been caught by the chief, of all people. They’re all the way out in the bay area right now, way out of Turner’s jurisdiction.

“You know what,” Turner says.

“I really don’t,” Jules responds.

“So you’re trying to tell me that that fireworks display just outside of town wasn’t your doing?” Turner says, scowling.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Jules says.

“Fine. One of the Campbells’ crank dens went up in smoke less than an hour ago, right on the Lodi-Morada border, and a member of the family was sent to St. David’s,” Turner says. “I thought we had an agreement, Jules. You can’t go blowing things up in our town!”

“The club had nothing to do with that,” Jules replies.

“And you expect me to believe that? Where’s the rest of your crew, then?” Looking around the room, Turner adds, “Don’t tell me it’s just a coincidence that both of your demolitions experts aren’t here.”

“They’re picking up some automotive parts from a dealer in Oakland,” Jules says. “They should be back soon—you can ask them yourself, if you’d like.”

“As though they’d be any more inclined to tell the truth than you are,” Turner grumbles.

“Why are you so set on believing that it was us?” Mike says. “You got any evidence?”

“Of course there’s no evidence—there’s _never_ any evidence,” Turner says to Mike, exasperated. Turning back to Jules, he adds, “But if I find anything linking you to this explosion, then that means you went back on our agreement, and I will make you hurt for it.”

“You won’t find anything, because we didn’t do it,” Jules says firmly.

“You just keep saying that,” Turner responds before turning his back and stalking out of the building.

The door falls shut behind him, and Gabe turns his attention to Jules.

“Leviathans?” Aggie says from behind the bar, and Jules nods.

“Leviathans,” he confirms. “It’s probably a gesture on their part, to cement their alliance with the ‘Nines. Alpha Worthington is a shrewd man; it makes sense that he would ask for the Leviathans to show their commitment by taking action.”

“Do you think the Campbells know?” Mike asks.

“Shit, they’ll probably think it was us, just like the chief did,” Gabe says.

“Then it’s a good thing we’re meeting with them today,” Jules says.

“Do you think they’ll really show, after this?” Gabe asks.

“Yes. Samuel will want us to confirm that we were the ones behind the attack, so that he’ll be completely justified in trying to take us on,” Aggie reasons.

“Should we move the meeting up so that they don’t try and hit us immediately?” Mike suggests.

“No. I doubt they’ll make their move right away,” Jules says. “If one of theirs is in the hospital, I suppose we could swing by.”

“The sooner we clear things up with them, the better,” Aggie says.

“All right, let’s go,” Jules says, heading for the door.

Gabe falls in line with the others as they follow Jules outside, but before they’ve reached their bikes, a truck drives up and comes to a screeching halt in the middle of the lot. Cas, Bobby, and Limey spill out of the vehicle, and Cas and Bobby haul Luce out of the back.

“Shit—what happened?” Mike demands, rushing over to help them.

Cas passes Luce off to Mike and jogs toward his bike. “I’ve gotta get some supplies. Luce got shot.”

“Do you need any help?” Gabe asks, hanging back—the rest of the club is following Bobby and Mike inside.

“No, I’m fine—I’ll be right back.”

Gabe nods and goes to follow the others into the clubhouse. They pass straight through the main room into the chapel and deposit Luce face down across the table.

“What the hell happened?” Jules asks imperiously.

“Luce and I might’ve been made,” Limey answers.

“He’s lookin’ pale,” Bobby says. “But I think we oughta have enough time to patch him up before getting him and Limey up to the cabin.”

“Fuck. If you got made, then you should’ve done something about it—damage control. Didn’t you guys have any clue what you were doing?” Mike says angrily.

“It was a _kid_ ,” Limey bites out. “I wasn’t about to put a goddamn bullet in his chest. And last I checked, we weren’t in the business of kidnapping children, either.”

“All right, shut up, the both of you,” Bobby says. “I need a med kit. We gotta get this bullet out of his ass before we patch him up.”

* * *

Someone raps twice on Dean’s door, and he looks up to see Cindy in the doorway. “Dr. Winchester, we need you in the ER.”

“Gotcha,” Dean says, getting to his feet and following the nurse away from his office.

They move quickly to the ER, in time to see someone get wheeled in, covered in hastily applied bandages.

“What happened to him?” Dean asks.

“Explosion,” the nurse responds. “That’s all I know.”

Well, shit. Dean wants to believe that it wasn’t the club, but he can’t imagine anyone else setting off an explosion in this town. Then again, maybe it was an accident—a gas leak, or something.

Dean is following the stretcher toward the operating room when he catches movement in his peripheral vision, a couple people heading toward him from the hallway to his left. He almost doesn’t recognize them at first, but the man in the middle is definitely Samuel Campbell—his grandfather. From the angry, worried look on his face, the man on the stretcher is probably one of them.

Dean hurries into the operating room before they can reach him and immediately says to Cindy, “I can’t operate on this patient. Is Dr. Barr on duty?”

“What—I mean, I think so, yeah.”

“Okay. Prep him for surgery—I’ll go get her,” Dean says.

He doesn’t leave Cindy any time to protest, just heads for the door at the other end of the ward—the last thing he wants is to run into his grandfather in the waiting room.

Dean exits the emergency ward and nearly bowls Andrea right over in his hurry.

“Hey—you okay?” she says, jerking back instinctively.

“Shit, sorry,” Dean says. “I was looking for you, actually. Could you—there’s a patient that just got taken into the ER, and he needs surgery.”

Andrea frowns. “You’re a surgeon too, Dean.”

“It’s—complicated. It’s a family thing. Just—please.”

“Yeah, okay,” Andrea says, sympathy crossing her face. “It’s fine. I’ll talk to Linda for you, if you really need to get out of here.”

“Thanks,” Dean says gratefully, letting Andrea pass by him and into the ER.

He hurries back to his office, and once inside, he shuts and locks the door before collapsing onto the small couch across from his desk.

God, he’d suspected that the explosion had something to do with the Reapers when he first heard about it, but now that he knows the Campbells were the target, he’s almost certain of it. There’s always been bad blood between the Reapers and the Campbells, and Dean doesn’t want to get caught up in it. Douchebag or not, Samuel Campbell is still his grandfather.

His cell phone vibrates in his pocket, and he tugs it out, feeling some irrational dread that Samuel may have found out about him and gotten his number somehow. But the caller ID says “Cas,” so Dean picks up, relieved.

“Hey, Cas,” he says.

“Where are you? We need your help,” Cas says. Before Dean can answer, he goes on, “Luce got shot.”

Shit. “I’m at the hospital,” Dean says. “Where are you?”

“I’m at your house—I thought you’d be here.”

“Well, I’m not. Is uh, is Luce at the clubhouse? I could head over—I’ve got some time on my hands right now,” Dean offers. It’ll be good to get out of here, at least for a little while.

“That’d be great. Thanks,” Cas says.

“Yeah, no problem.”

Dean hangs up, puts his phone away, and pauses to just think for a moment, because the clubhouse probably won’t have the supplies that he needs to take proper care of a bullet wound. After making a mental list of all the things he’ll need—sterile gloves, gauze, disinfectant, a clamp, and some bandages, among other things—he leaves his office and goes into a storage room to fill a bag with the necessities.

About ten minutes later, Dean exits the building and heads over to his car. As he gets closer, he notices some paper on the windshield. Annoyed, he walks a little faster—how dare someone just leave their crap on his baby?

But then Dean gets close enough to see what’s on those papers, and aw, fuck—they’re a couple pictures of Cas and Meg, standing together in what is definitely the lot in front of the garage at Morton-Novak. Meg is leaning up to kiss Cas’s cheek, and Dean snatches the sheet of paper, crumpling it into a ball.

He gets into the car, tossing the crumpled paper into the passenger seat and crushing it with his bag.

The pictures looked like they were taken from out on the street. It was Alastair—it _must_ have been. Fuck, this is bad. If Alastair’s been taking pictures of _Cas_ —Dean doesn’t even know what that’s supposed to mean. Is it a warning to stay away from Cas? A warning that he’ll be going after Cas next?

Dean shudders at the thought of Alastair’s paws on Cas—he knows what that vile man is capable of, and the only thing worse than thinking of what happened with Alastair is the thought of _Cas_ having to go through that shit.

But no—Victor called about an hour ago to say that he’d escorted Alastair out of town. Baby’s been parked outside since seven in the morning. Alastair probably left the pictures there before getting caught by Victor, so there shouldn’t be any danger anymore… right?

Fuck. Fuck, Dean _hates_ feeling unsafe, but he can’t help it, even though he knows Alastair has been driven out of town.

Shaking his head, Dean starts the car. No matter what the deal is with Alastair, Luce has been shot, and the club needs Dean to patch him up. One thing at a time, Dean thinks as he pulls out of the parking space and heads toward Morton-Novak.

* * *

Robert paces back and forth in the waiting room, anxious and angry.

“It was the Reapers,” he says, stopping in front of Samuel’s chair. “It _must_ have been. Don’t you remember what they did to Johnny?”

“Of course I remember,” Samuel responds. “I’m meeting with the Reapers at noon—we’ll talk about it then.”

“You mean you’re still meeting with them?” Robert says, incredulous.

“Yes.”

“You must be joking. No one wants to hurt us as much as they do. And they’ve always been touchy about bringing drugs into Morada. Mark was on the border when they blew him up—they’re probably angling to take us out entirely,” Robert says.

“We can’t know that for certain until we’ve spoken with them,” Samuel says.

“Yeah, easy for you to say. It’s not _your_ son on the operating table,” Robert says heatedly. “You know what, if we weren’t in this fucking business, both of my boys would be _fine_. Instead, I got one son laid up with a bum leg and the other—I don’t even know how bad it’s gonna be for him.”

“I didn’t pressure any o’ you into this,” Samuel says. “You chose it.”

“Yeah, I know,” Robert says. “I’m regretting the hell out of that choice.”

“So that’s it. You want to throw the towel in, just lay down and let them walk all over you.”

“They wouldn’t do that if we stopped dealing,” Robert says. “We could walk away from all of this, and they’d let us. Hell, they’d be _happy_ about it. You know that.”

They’re silent for a long moment, and then Samuel says, “You’re letting your worry cloud your judgment. Come talk to me when you’re thinking clearly.” He turns and starts walking away.

Gwen, who has been silent for the exchange, lingers between them, even as Robert sits down to wait.

“Oh, go on,” he says to his niece, waving a hand dismissively.

She seems hesitant, but in the end, she turns and jogs off to catch up with Samuel. Robert heaves a sigh, tired. Mark had better be okay.

* * *

Cas gets back to the shop and finds the lot pretty much empty. The prospects are in the garage, and all the bikes are parked where they belong, but there’s no sign of Dean just yet. Cas dismounts and starts toward the clubhouse, but before he can reach it, Dean pulls up onto the lot. At the sight of the Impala, sleek and black, Cas can’t help but smile—Dean has always loved that car, ever since he was little.

As Cas heads over, he hears the door of the clubhouse swing open, and when he looks back over his shoulder, he sees Mom standing in the doorway, a dark look on her face. Cas shoots her a warning glare, and she just turns around and goes back inside.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says as Dean gets out of the car.

“Yeah, no problem,” Dean says, slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

“C’mon, then. He’s inside,” Cas says, leading the way toward the clubhouse.

But he’s stopped by a hand hooked around his elbow, and Dean says, “Hey—Baby’s making a weird rattling noise whenever she turns. Could you have the guys take a look at her?”

Cas frowns—he’s pretty sure Dean was always resistant to letting other people work on his car. “You sure about that?” Cas asks.

“Yeah. I’d take care of her myself, but I just don’t have the time.”

“Hmm,” Cas grunts, but that sounds like an excuse.

“When this is over, could you give me a ride back to the hospital?” Dean asks.

Cas nods. “Sure—won’t be a problem.”

Dean releases Cas’s elbow then, and they head over to the clubhouse together. It’s strange to walk inside knowing that Dean is right behind him—Dean had been out on the lot the other day, but now he’s actually inside the clubhouse, and it feels surreal, incongruous.

“Hey, Doc’s in the house,” Mike says from the bar.

Bobby and Jules come over to greet Dean, and Cas hangs back for a moment, lost in thought. It’s like Dean should be here, yet he really, really shouldn’t be.

He shouldn’t be here _like this_ , Cas decides.

What’s missing is that Dean isn’t patched in, doesn’t have a cut— _isn’t one of them_.

Shaking off the thoughts, Cas steers Dean toward the chapel, where Luce must be. Limey is just inside, holding a mostly full bottle of whiskey. Gabe is there too, and Cas doesn’t know whether to laugh or gag when he sees that Gabe’s finger is shoved in the bullet hole.

“We got the bullet out, but we couldn’t stop the bleeding,” Limey says.

“So you just shoved the nearest thing in there?” Dean says, clearly disapproving.

“Well, it’s working, isn’t it?” Limey says, passing the whiskey to Luce when he reaches for it.

Luce takes a swig before looking over his shoulder at the new arrivals. “Come to save my ass, Doc?” he says, laughing weakly.

“Hmm. The pain can’t be that bad if you’re laughing about it,” Dean says, moving closer to Gabe to get a better look at the wound.

Cas moves to stand by Limey, out of the way, and looks over when he hears the door opening again. Mom slips into the room before letting the door fall shut again, and Cas narrows his eyes at her. If she’s about to give Dean a hard time right now, then she’s got the worst timing ever.

“All right. I’ve got some gauze here to stop the bleeding,” Dean says, setting his bag down on one of the chairs and starting to rummage through it. “Gonna need one of you to give me a hand.” Limey steps forward before Cas can, and Dean goes on, “Gabe’s gonna pull his hand back, and then you—” he stops there, frowning. “You need gloves.”

“I think we’re beyond worrying about a sterile environment, Dean,” Limey says. “Gabe’s finger is already in there, and he’s got no gloves on.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Just put the gloves on,” Luce says. “I want Gabe’s finger out of my ass.”

“My finger isn’t up your ass!” Gabe protests as Dean gets out a couple latex gloves and gives a pair to Limey. “Well—I mean technically it is, but—it isn’t.”

“All right,” Dean says, pulling his own gloves on. “Gabe, you’re gonna pull your finger out. Limey, as soon as he’s clear, shove the gauze in, and I’ll clamp it in place. Got it?”

“Got it,” Gabe says. Limey just nods.

Dean shoves a needle into Luce’s ass, and when Naomi asks what he’s doing, he explains that it’s a local anesthetic.

“I already can’t feel anything, Doc. Just get on with it,” Luce says, taking another drink from the bottle.

“Okay,” Dean says. “On the count of—”

Before Dean can finish speaking, someone calls his name from outside the room, and Cas frowns. That was a woman’s voice, but Mom is in here, so who could be asking for Dean out there? The person shouts again, and Cas hears some commotion outside, sounding like an argument.

“A little busy at the moment!” Dean calls out.

“I’ll see what’s happening,” Naomi says, turning to go back out the door.

“Just do it,” Cas says to Dean—the sooner they get Luce taken care of, the sooner they can cart Limey and Luce out of here, to someplace safe.

“Okay, then,” Dean says. “On three. Ready, guys?”

“Ready.”

Dean counts off, and on three, Gabe pulls his finger out of the bullet hole. Limey immediately presses the gauze into the wound, and Cas winces despite himself—Luce may be numbed to the pain, but it still looks fucking painful. Dean secures the gauze, and Cas is surprised by how smooth it went.

“That’s it?” Luce says.

“For now,” Dean answers. “We’ll wait a couple minutes for the blood to clot, and then I’ll sew you up. You’re gonna be just fine. Gabe, you can go wash your hands.”

Gabe looks down at his blood-covered hands and says, helplessly, “Someone get the door for me?”

* * *

“Good morning, Mrs. Harvelle,” a man in sunglasses says when Ellen opens the front door. “Could I have a few minutes of your time?”

“Depends,” Ellen says. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I’m Agent Crowley, with the ATF,” the man says, and Ellen’s chest immediately seizes up with worry—if the ATF is making house calls, things can’t be looking good for Bill. He continues, “and what I want is to speak with you, just for a few minutes. May I?”

Ellen steps back without hesitation and gestures for him to enter. “Come on in,” she says, like she’s got nothing to hide. Really, she _has_ got nothing to hide. She doesn’t know any club business nowadays, and Bill’s on the inside. What more can they do to her?

Crowley comes into the house and moves over to the living room, looking around himself curiously as he does. He comes to a stop in front of the couch and turns around to face Ellen, who shuts the door and goes to join him.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“You’re a smart woman, Mrs. Harvelle,” Crowley says. “You must know that the ATF doesn’t pay its agents to make social calls.”

Ellen smiles. “No, it doesn’t. So get to the point, Agent Crowley.”

“I’m here about your husband,” he says.

“Naturally. What about him?”

“His parole hearing has been postponed indefinitely, pending the results of a murder investigation.”

Fuck. And she thought things couldn’t get any worse.

“Murder?” Ellen says, projecting surprise and disbelief as convincingly as she can.

“He killed one of his fellow inmates just hours after you visited him,” Crowley says. “Now, he told me that you brought him a message from Reapers MC, demanding that he exact revenge on a member of a rival club. I’m here to confirm whether or not that’s true.”

“It’s not,” Ellen says.

“William said—”

“No, he didn’t. You’re lying.”

“You’re that loyal to the club, hmm?” Crowley says.

“No. My loyalty—or disloyalty—to the club has no bearing on the truth,” Ellen says firmly. “I don’t know why my husband would kill anyone, but he wouldn’t lie about his reasons. I have never passed him any messages from the club before—not instructions, anyway.”

“I understand why you’re doing this,” Crowley says. “I know it seems like the only way to keep your husband and your family safe is to continue helping the Reapers. But what if they can’t protect you anymore? What if they won’t?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ellen says, trying to cut him off.

But Crowley just continues, “Yesterday, an inmate attacked your husband—jammed a mop handle into his left eye. It was retaliation, for the man the MC ordered your husband to kill.”

Ellen doesn’t want to hear any more, stuck on the mental image of a mop handle going into—

 _No_.

“If the club had the desire, or the capability, to keep your husband safe, do you really think this would have happened to him?”

“I’d like you to leave, now,” Ellen says, numb.

“Mrs. Harvelle—”

“Get out!” Ellen barks, storming back over to the front door and yanking it open.

Crowley produces a business card and sets it down on the coffee table. “In case you change your mind,” he says smugly, and Ellen hates that she gave him the satisfaction of rattling her, but Bill just _lost his eye_ , and he’ll never get it back. There’s no way for her to stay calm about that.

The ATF agent leaves, and Ellen watches his car pull away before going into the garage to get her own car. Jules has a hell of a lot to answer for.

Less than ten minutes later, Ellen pulls into the lot in front of Morton-Novak and is startled to see the Impala parked outside—that’s John Winchester’s car. Dean’s now, rather. What the fuck is he even _doing_ here with these poisonous people?

As she gets out of the car, she is aware of the prospects perking up over in the garage, but they don’t run over to stop her as she heads toward the clubhouse—presumably, the one who met her last Friday recognizes her—so she doesn’t pay them any more attention.

Jules, Bobby, and Mike are in the main room of the clubhouse when she walks in, as well as a couple men that Ellen doesn’t recognize. No—she does remember Raph, from his days as a prospect. He went Nomad, if she recalls correctly, but it isn’t strange for a couple Nomads to be hanging around the Original Charter, especially in times like this.

 _Times like this_. Ellen had thought that these types of times were behind her, but apparently they aren’t, and it’s infuriating. Will she never be able to leave this fucking clubhouse behind?

“What have you done with Dean?” Ellen demands first, before the surprise has faded from the bikers’ faces.

“We haven’t done anything to him,” Bobby says, frowning.

“Then where is he?” Ellen asks. Before anyone can respond, she calls out, “Dean? Dean!”

Ellen thinks she hears Dean responding, muffled, seemingly from inside the chapel, but she can’t be sure because Jules is saying, “Dean is preoccupied, but I assure you, he’s fine.”

“He’s ‘fine,’” Ellen says, seething. “As ‘fine’ as my husband?”

“Ellen, what’s the matter?” Jules asks calmly.

Naomi emerges from the chapel then, and Ellen almost holds her tongue on her behalf—she and Naomi have been close friends for over three decades, and though they don’t speak as much as they used to, Naomi might still be the closest thing Ellen has to a best friend.

But she can’t—she just _can’t_ , not anymore, so she says what she came here to say.

“An ATF agent showed up at my house a few minutes ago to harass me. Bill’s parole isn’t going to go through.” She sees that Jules is about to speak, so she goes on, “ _And_ , he just got his eye taken out by another inmate.”

The entire room goes very still.

Then Jules starts, “Ellen, we’re very sorry that—”

“Oh, stop with your bullshit apologies. I don’t want them,” Ellen interrupts. “If it weren’t for this goddamn club, Bill would still have his eye. Hell—he wouldn’t even be in jail in the first place.” Looking around at the people in the room, she says, “You took my husband away from me, and you expect me to be fucking _grateful_ for your _protection_. Who was there to protect Bill when he needed it, huh?”

“Woman!” Bobby barks, shoving off his barstool and coming toward her. “Do you even hear the words that are coming out of your mouth?”

She recognizes the concern in his eyes, knows him well enough to know what he’s thinking—he needs to be louder and angrier than Jules so that Ellen won’t have to suffer Jules’s wrath. She would be touched by his thoughtfulness, except that she doesn’t give a fuck anymore.

“Yeah, actually, I do,” Ellen answers him. “They sound an awful lot like the fucking truth, don’t they?”

Before Bobby can reach her, she spins around and marches out of the room. She had been half-planning to drag Dean out of there, but she just can’t look at those people anymore. If Dean doesn’t know what’s best for him, then whatever happens to him is his own goddamn fault.

Hurried footsteps come toward Ellen from behind, and she spins around to see Naomi approaching her.

“Ellen—I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too,” Ellen replies, getting into her car and slamming the door. She starts the car and gets the hell out of there before Naomi can stop her.

* * *

“Mike, I want confirmation about Bill’s eye,” Jules says in the wake of Ellen’s tirade.

“I’ll call his public defender,” Mike says, getting out his cell phone and going toward the hallway that leads to the back rooms.

“If it’s true, we’ll need to send someone in to see him,” Jules continues.

Aggie sighs, shakes his head. “His visitation privileges will likely have been stripped, now that he’s gone and murdered someone,” he says.

“He hasn’t been convicted yet,” Bobby says, turning back to face the room—he’d started going after Ellen, but Naomi had stopped him and gone out in his stead. “If they haven’t convicted him, then they haven’t stripped any rights yet. We gotta get in there soon, tell him that he’s gotta be careful.”

“Careful of what?” Raph says. “The ‘Nines have already taken their revenge.”

“Yeah, but the feds are still after us,” Bobby says.

The door to the chapel swings open, and Gabe steps out, followed closely by Cas. Gabe’s hands are covered in blood, and Aggie frowns despite himself—they may have a surgeon in there, but losing that much blood never bodes well.

“Luce is gonna be fine,” Cas says, shoving Gabe toward the bar. “Doctor’s words, not mine.”

“At least there’s that,” Bobby says, slumping down onto one of the couches against the wall opposite the bar.

“Who’s Mike on the phone with?” Cas asks.

“Bill’s lawyer,” Aggie answers. “The public defender, that is,” he adds, because Bill’s actual lawyer is still laid up in the hospital.

“What’s going on?” Cas asks.

“We’ve got confirmation,” Mike says, coming back into the room. “The parole hearing has been suspended—‘postponed indefinitely’ were the guy’s exact words—and Bill’s still in the hospital ward for his eye.”

Cas looks at Mike sharply. “What happened to his eye?”

“Got taken out by a mop handle,” Mike says, looking down at his phone. “Lawyer says he can arrange to have two of us visit him in the ward, but it’ll have to be real short—five, ten minutes, tops.”

“Do they know who did it?” Gabe asks from behind the bar, wiping his hands—clean, now—on a dishtowel.

“Doesn’t matter who did it,” Bobby says. “If it wasn’t one of the ‘Nines, then it was one of their affiliates.”

“I’ll go to Stockton,” Cas says. “This was our fault for not securing protection in time. If Jules doesn’t go himself, I have to.”

Without missing a beat, Jules says, “It should be me. Bill and I can have two conversations at once without giving anything away to eavesdroppers, so we won’t have to worry about recording devices.”

“I’ll go with you,” Cas offers.

“We’ve still gotta meet with the Campbells in less than half an hour, and if the president doesn’t show, the VP’s gotta be there,” Aggie points out.

“Then I’ll take the Campbells,” Cas says. “Bill’s more important.”

“If they’re allowing two visitors, let me come with you,” Aggie says to Jules.

As he finishes, Naomi steps back into the room, holding herself rigidly, a mixture of anger and sorrow playing across her face. Jules’s attention is immediately on her, and Aggie understands his concern, but they have more pressing matters at hand.

“Jules,” he prompts.

“All right,” Jules says. He looks around the room, taking stock, and then announces, “Bobby, Mike, and Gabe, ride with Cas to meet with the Campbells. Nomads, I want you to escort Luce and Limey up to the cabin as soon as the doc okays Luce for transport.” Eyes on Aggie, he finishes, “You and I should head out now. The sooner we get to Bill, the better.”

Aggie gets to his feet and heads for the door, passing by Naomi on his way out. Out on the lot, he and Jules move toward their bikes.

“Maybe you should stay back, keep an eye on the shop,” Jules says. “I don’t need a partner for this.”

“Better not to travel alone right now, Jules. We don’t know what the ‘Nines and Leviathans have planned. If they’ve moved on the Campbells, they could be looking to move on us too,” Aggie says. It’s unlikely that they’d make a move on both at once, but still—better safe than sorry.

“I can hold down the fort while you and the boys are out,” Naomi says, and Aggie jolts a little, startled. He hadn’t even noticed her following them out of the clubhouse.

Jules turns toward her with a small smile, bittersweet, and Aggie averts his eyes from what is most definitely a private moment, despite his presence. He’s been around since the beginning, and he knows just how close Ellen and Naomi are, or _were_. Everyone knows that the old ladies of an MC are its backbone, a source of strength and stability, and they support each other as much as they support their men. Losing that support can’t be easy.

A moment later, Aggie hears Naomi heading out toward the office attached to the garage, and he glances over at Jules just in time to see him tucking the sorrow away, calm confidence settling over him as he watches his wife walk away.

Yes, Aggie thinks, this old lady is vital to the club—to Jules. He hates to imagine what might become of them if anything happens to her.

* * *

Luce slips in and out of a pleasant daze, probably something to do with the numbness in his ass—now that the pain is gone, he feels a hell of a lot more relaxed. He’s vaguely aware of people talking around him, but he doesn’t really tune in for… a while. It’s hard to tell time when he’s woozy.

And when his eyes are closed. He’d open his eyes to check the time, but his eyelids feel too fucking heavy, and it’s better like this anyway, nice and dark.

Is there even a clock in this room? Luce doesn’t think there is.

“What’s it like to be back?”

That’s Limey’s voice, breaking the spell, and Luce wants to tune out the response, but he’s too aware to zone back out again. Ah well, it was fun while it lasted.

“Just say what you want to say. There’s no one else here—we don’t have to do all this bullshit small talk.”

Sounds like Dean, but then, Dean’s supposed to be the smart one, isn’t he? Luce is _right here_.

They probably think he fell asleep. He should probably tell them he’s not asleep.

But that would require _talking_ , and Luce actually wants to keep his mouth closed, for once. Too much effort to talk.

“That was all I wanted to say,” Limey says. “I didn’t mean anything else by it.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Dean says. “You haven’t said _one_ thing to me that didn’t have a double meaning, since I got back.”

“That’s not true.”

Dean doesn’t answer, and Luce thinks now would be a good time to speak up. He’s feeling more amenable to opening his mouth, but now he’s curious. He knows that Naomi has been angsting over Dean’s return more than anyone else, and he figured Limey would be too, but it’s fascinating to get to actually hear them jabbing at each other the way they would when no one’s listening.

He wonders if Jimmy has had the brother-talk with Dean yet.

“Dean,” Limey says, “I don’t know why you came back. Honestly, I never wanted you to come back. But you’re back, and… well, I can’t say what’s going to happen between you and Cas, but what I do know is why Cas isn’t angry with you.”

“You think he’s not angry with me?” Dean says, surprise easy to hear in his tone.

“Not as angry as he should be,” Limey answers, and Luce pictures the slight downward turn to his mouth.

Luce shares the sentiment—it’s shitty to be left high and dry like that. Sure, Dean and Cas weren’t _dating_ or anything when Dean left the club, but Luce had _eyes_. He’s pretty sure anyone who was paying attention picked up on it. For some reason, Mike still has a positive impression of Dean, but Luce can’t really think of him as anything but a selfish little shit.

And now he owes that selfish little shit a huge favor for sewing up his ass. Goddamn it.

Then Limey says, “I trust Cas. If he’s chosen to trust you, then I have to believe that that is the best choice, for him.”

“So… we’re good?” Dean sounds uncharacteristically uncertain.

“We’re good.”

Luce waits for them to keep talking, but it seems like they’re done. He hears some shuffling and then the sound of a bag being zipped up. Before they can leave the room, Luce says, “Y’all realize I was awake for all of that, don’t you?” There’s a tense pause, and Luce opens his eyes, looking at the opposite wall as he adds, “Just ‘cause I can’t see you doesn’t mean I don’t know you’re frantically trying to figure out what’s to be done now. Don’t worry, Dean—I won’t tell anyone about you and Cas and your big gay love affair.”

“Dude,” Dean says.

“For the record,” Luce goes on, “I couldn’t care less where my VP sticks his dick as long as it’s not in me.”

“ _Luce_ ,” Dean complains.

“It’s true,” Luce says, shrugging. He’s tempted to look back over his shoulder because he thinks Dean’s expression would be priceless right now, but it’s not worth the effort.

“And if it’s the other way around?” Limey asks.

Luce can’t read Limey’s expression but he hears the challenge in his tone regardless, as though Luce is gonna think of Cas differently just ‘cause he likes taking it up the ass. As long as Cas has got his back, Luce doesn’t give a shit who he’s fucking or how he’s fucking them.

But of course Limey would be ready to defend his fucking honor. Limey’s a boy scout like that.

So Luce says, “I’m sure he’d take it like a man.”

“God, let’s get outta here,” Dean says.

Frowning, Luce says, “What, you’re just gonna leave me here with my ass hanging out?”

In response, one of them takes the time to lay something over his backside, something soft, probably a spare t-shirt or something. Luce is about to thank him when he spanks Luce’s good cheek and says, “Behave yourself.”

“Hey!” Luce barks, twisting to look behind himself. He doesn’t see who did it—they ducked out of the room too fast—but that voice was definitely Limey’s.

Luce is gonna get him for that, when he’s back on his feet.

* * *

Dean and Limey come out of the chapel not long after Jules and Aggie leave for Stockton. Adam has seen his brother a couple times during his time in Morada, but it’s always been quick, just a glance here and there. They haven’t exchanged words, even.

Now, Dean’s standing still, not going anywhere, and it’s strange—he doesn’t look any more like Sam than Adam does. None of them look like brothers, yet somehow, they are. Dean looks slightly flushed, like he’s embarrassed to be here, and Adam wonders if he feels out of place.

“Go on ahead,” Cas says, eyes flicking between Bobby, Mike, and Gabe. “I’ll be right out.” As the guys head outside, Cas turns to Limey and Dean and says, “Jules wants you up at the cabin as soon as Luce can move.”

“I just finished stitching him up, so he should be good,” Dean says.

“We’ll escort you up, then,” Raph says, grabbing his cut off the back of a chair and shrugging it on. Adam and Sharpie get to their feet with him, ready to head out.

“Wait—I’m not going, right?” Dean says, looking at them uncertainly. His eyes land on Cas, and he says, “I’ve still gotta get back to the hospital.”

“I’ll drop you off,” Cas says. “I’m heading to a meet with the other guys, but we’ve still got some time before it starts.”

“Okay,” Dean says, clearly relieved. “Well uh, Luce is gonna be fine. I left some antibiotics with Limey—just make sure he gets them every four hours.”

“Thanks,” Cas says. Turning toward the Nomads, Cas says, “Get Luce out of the chapel.”

Raph and Sharpie head over immediately, and Adam follows a beat later—he’s so curious about his brother, and he doesn’t know when he’ll have another opportunity to observe him. Sam must have decided to keep the letters from Dean, if he’s here, still willing to help the club.

As Adam follows Raph and Sharpie toward the chapel, he hears Cas telling Limey to be careful and asking Dean to follow him. Dean and Cas still seem close, despite what Bobby told Adam about Dean falling away from the club and all.

Was it the wrong choice, handing the letters off to Sam?

The club turned on his dad, and if the letters happen to tear the club apart, then justice will be served. But this could all blow back and hurt Dean—Cas was obviously way too young to be calling the shots when the club decided that it was time for John Winchester to die, but he’s the current VP, and there’s no way this history won’t drive a wedge between Dean and Cas.

Dean—and Cas too, really—they’re innocent in all of this, don’t deserve to be hurt by the truth.

Adam props the chapel door open so that Raph and Sharpie can haul Luce through, making digs at him about how heavy he is. Adam fakes a smile as they pass.

Either way, it’s too late to do anything about it now. Sam has the letters, and he’ll do whatever he thinks he needs to do with them. It’s out of Adam’s hands, so he does his best to put it out of his mind.

* * *

Cas passes Dean the spare helmet before getting onto his bike, waiting for Dean to climb on behind him. He can’t remember the last time he actually had a use for his spare helmet—he doesn’t like letting anyone else ride his bike. Even when he and Meg were an item, they’d never had to ride together because Meg rode her own bike.

Dean scoots up a little, hands hovering awkwardly for a moment as Cas straightens out the bike and starts walking it backwards.

“You’re probably gonna want to hold on, Dean,” Cas says.

Dean gives a grunt of assent, and Cas thinks he likes the feeling of Dean’s large hands settling over his hips a little too much.

The ride to the hospital is short—too short—and Cas almost doesn’t want Dean to get off. The only real points of contact between them are Dean’s hands on his hips, but there’s still this quiet closeness that Cas doesn’t want to lose.

But, inevitably, they get to the hospital, and Cas brings the bike to a stop near the entrance, pausing for Dean to get off. He doesn’t cut the engine, ‘cause the plan is to head straight out to rendezvous with Bobby, Mike, and Gabe, who’ve already gone to the turnout that they chose for the Campbells’ meet.

“I can come pick you up after work, since the Impala’s still at the shop,” Cas offers.

“I get off at seven thirty,” Dean says, passing the spare helmet back to Cas.

“I’ll be here, then.”

Dean nods, and Cas expects him to just walk away, but then Dean leans in and kisses him. It’s just a quick peck, but they’re still out in the open, where anyone beyond the glass doors of the hospital could see, and Cas feels just about as surprised as Dean looks.

“See you then,” Dean says, ears and neck slightly red. He hurries off toward the entrance before Cas can say anything.

Cas lingers for a moment, watching until Dean goes out of sight before righting his bike and riding out.

* * *

Two of the Campbells’ cars show up at the turnoff a couple minutes early, and Bobby heads toward them, intending to tell them that their VP will be there any minute. But he hears a bike approaching, and less than a minute later, Cas pulls up.

Only four Campbells get out of the cars, and Bobby supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that Robert isn’t here—his son is still in the hospital. Samuel looks furious, understandably, and Bobby’s first instinct is to lay into him with an explanation, but it isn’t his place. He holds his tongue, because this situation is Cas’s to handle. Bobby doesn’t need to step in unless he fucks up.

“The explosion wasn’t our doing,” Cas says. It’s as good a way as any to lead off, Bobby guesses.

“News travels quickly, apparently,” Samuel says, eyebrows raised skeptically.

“The chief had the same suspicions you did, so he dropped by the shop to question us,” Cas says. “In the interest of full disclosure, Bobby, Luce, Limey, and I weren’t in Morada this morning. We went out to Oakland to pick up some parts for an old Chevy in the garage.”

“Gabe and I were at the clubhouse,” Mike says. “We’d just gotten back from towing a car to the shop when the chief came in.”

Bobby doesn’t know whether or not that’s true, but it’s plausible.

“You seem to have your alibis rehearsed pretty well,” Samuel says.

“Only ‘cause they’re true,” Cas says.

Samuel folds his arms across his chest. “So if I went to Morton-Novak right now, I’d find a car that was just towed in this morning, and a ton of spare parts for some old Chevy?”

“They didn’t have the parts we needed, so we placed an order,” Bobby says smoothly. It isn’t even a complete lie—they’d checked with the warehouse and placed an order over the phone.

“Convenient,” Samuel says.

“Look, if we really decided to just go for it and bomb you guys, do you really think we’d be talking right now?” Cas says. He’s quiet for a minute, making sure Samuel has nothing to say to that, and then he says, “We know that you made an arrangement with Dick Roman, hoping that he’d help you take us out. But that can be forgiven if you swap alliances now.”

“And why would we wanna do that?” Samuel says, not even bothering to pretend that it isn’t true.

“The bombing wasn’t us,” Cas says. “There’s only one other group of people who would dare to set off a bomb on the border between our territories, and it’s the Leviathans themselves.” After a quick pause for effect, Cas hammers the point home. “They’ve turned on you, Samuel. If you want to protect yourself and your family, we’re your only option.”

Samuel is silent for a long moment, but finally, he says, “What do you want from us?”

“Nothing just yet,” Cas answers. “Our first goal is just to keep you alive in Lodi. We’ll send men up there to guard your other houses—Mike and Gabe could go right now, if you show them the way.”

Samuel’s eyes immediately narrow, wary. “We can’t just give up the location of our houses to you.”

Cas shrugs. “If you don’t want our help, that’s your choice. But I’ll bet the Leviathans are already planning their next target. You were lucky your grandnephew didn’t die in this explosion. Who knows whether or not you’ll be so lucky next time?”

Samuel’s reluctance is obvious, but he’s also gotta know that Cas is right. He’s backed into a corner, and his only choice if he wants to survive is to partner with the Reapers.

It seems to cost him a lot, but at long last, he nods and says, “Christian, you lead them into Lodi.”

Cas nods to Mike and Gabe, and they head over to their bikes as Christian goes toward one of the Campbell cars.

“Good choice,” Cas says, already starting to turn away. “We’ll contact you if anything comes up.”

“So what’ll happen after this, hmm?” Samuel asks. “Unless you plan on wiping the Leviathans off the map entirely, business in Lodi is going to be impossible for us, and you don’t want us in Morada.”

“Maybe it’s time you chose a different line of work,” Bobby says. “Or maybe you should just retire, let someone else take over the family business.”

Samuel glares at him, but he chooses not to respond, heading over to his car. Ed and Gwen follow him.

“That went surprisingly well,” Cas says when Bobby joins him by their bikes.

They watch as Christian leads Mike and Gabe out of the turnoff and up the highway. “Well, Samuel is a practical man,” Bobby says. Samuel’s car starts, and Cas swings a leg over his bike, but Bobby lingers, still holding his helmet.

“Problem?” Cas asks as he straps his own helmet on.

“Naw,” Bobby says. “You’re a good VP. Gonna be a great president, when Jules steps down.” Cas only frowns at him, and Bobby knows that this is a delicate moment. If he pushes too hard, Cas will clam up, so he just raises an eyebrow and says, “You don’t think so?”

Cas huffs, turning his gaze away. “You can keep a secret, right?” he asks.

“‘Course.”

It still takes a moment for Cas to admit, “I don’t want to be president. Never wanted to be.”

Bobby knows this, has known this for years, but Cas hasn’t ever admitted it to him—hasn’t said it out loud. Bobby isn’t sure whether or not he’s told Limey, but Limey must know, too. “We’d all vote you in in a heartbeat, y’know,” he says, as though Cas needs the assurance. It’s plain to Bobby that that isn’t the problem—Cas has never had problems with his confidence.

“That’s not it,” Cas says, shaking his head. “I know you’d all support me. I just—don’t _want_ it. The gavel ought to go to Mike, or you. Or Limey.”

“None of us would have the unanimous support you’d have,” Bobby responds, and he has to listen to Cas’s self-deprecating laugh, quiet and humorless. Sighing, Bobby decides to just go for it. “You don’t actually want any of us to be the president, do you?”

Cas’s head whips back up, eyes finding Bobby’s unerringly. Bobby tries his best to keep his gaze even, eyes neutral, and eventually Cas deflates, the defensiveness draining out of him. He looks _smaller_ , almost, so much like he was when he was a decade and a half younger.

“It’s stupid, isn’t it?” Cas says, voice rough. “It’s stupid.”

“I won’t say it’s stupid, but it won’t happen,” Bobby says as gently as he can manage.

Dean will never be club president—hell, he’ll never be patched in. He’d need at least six months of prospecting before a vote could be called for his membership, and he’d need a unanimous vote to get in. Bobby doubts they’d let him in so easily. Mike and Gabe, maybe. _Maybe_ Jules. Limey would be a no, and Luce would be, too.

As for Bobby… well, Bobby knows which way he’d have to vote. John wanted his boys out of the club, and they’re out. If anything ever threatens to change that, Bobby will do his duty to his friend and make sure that it doesn’t.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Cas says, straightening up again. He takes a deep breath, exhales noisily. “All right, let’s head out, see if Jules and Aggie are back yet.”

Bobby nods and finally puts his helmet on.

* * *

“Hello, darling,” Crowley says when he sees Cecily’s name pop up on the caller ID. “Have you got something for me?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she answers. “One of your boys was just identified as a suspect in a homicide that took place in Richmond just this morning.”

“Really?” Crowley says, straightening up in his seat. “Tell me more. Which one was it?”

“A… Lucifer Milton,” Cecily says. “Another man was sighted with him, might have been another member, but they couldn’t get a positive ID on him.”

“Do you have pictures?”

“Just sent them to your phone,” she responds.

Crowley takes his phone away from his ear and puts her on speaker phone so that he can get to his picture messages. “That’s Balthazar ‘Limey’ Moran,” he observes. For confirmation, he holds his phone out to Victor, who is sitting in the seat next to him, stiff as a board.

“Yeah, it’s him, all right,” Victor says. “They messed up the nose a bit, and his mouth, but those are definitely his eyes.”

“I assumed you would want everything they’ve got, so I just sent the files to you,” Cecily says.

“You know me too well,” Crowley says, smiling. “Thank you, darling. I’ll remember this.”

“Bye, Crowley.”

Crowley hangs up and immediately scrolls to Sam’s phone number.

“Who’re you calling?” Victor asks.

“Sam. Full disclosure, right?” Crowley says. In reality, he cares very little about keeping Sam in the loop, but acting as though he does in front of Victor buys him trust. Trust he can use.

“Okay,” Victor says as they listen to the dial tone. “Are we going to arrest them after this?”

“You must know we can’t arrest Limey Moran without positively identifying him,” Crowley says.

“Sure, but what about Lucifer Milton?”

The call connects before Crowley can answer, and from the phone comes Sam’s voice—“Hello?”

“Hello, Sam,” Crowley says. “I’m here with Victor.”

“How’d the meeting with Famine go?” Sam asks.

“He refused to play ball,” Crowley says. “We’ll need something else to establish the club’s present crime, and I have just the right thing.”

“What is it?” Sam asks.

“Murder,” Crowley says. “There was a homicide in Richmond this morning, and an eyewitness identified Lucifer Milton as one of the killers.”

“Oh,” Sam says. “That’s—good.”

“So how are we coming along with past crimes?” Crowley asks.

He’s building a RICO case against the Reapers, and for that, they need to establish a history of criminal activity associated with the club. Without a past crime, the most Crowley can do with this murder charge is lock up Lucifer Milton—and _maybe_ Limey Moran—with a life sentence. But if they can get enough for RICO, the whole club will do time.

“Slow,” Sam says. “They’ve always been good at covering their tracks. It’ll take some time for me to dig anything up.”

“I’ll keep working on my end too, then,” Crowley says.

After a pause, Sam asks, “Are you going to let the local police arrest Lucifer?”

“I think I’d like to arrest the perpetrator in person,” he says. “It’s about time I met those deviants face to face, anyway.”

“Okay, then. Good luck,” Sam says, and hangs up.

As Crowley opens up his email app, Victor says, “I can run interference at the station to make sure Chief Turner doesn’t get there before you, if you want.”

“No need,” Crowley says. “The arrest warrant probably won’t be arriving at the Morada station for another half hour or so while the Richmond PD does their homework.” He starts reading the file and says, “On second thought, perhaps you should go. Better safe than sorry.”

“Okay,” Victor says. “Text me when you’ve got him.”

“I will,” Crowley says.

Victor ducks out of the car, and Crowley looks back down at the police report.

* * *

Claire doesn’t like going to the hospital to have dinner. Daddy’s hospital room is plain and boring, and she feels bad that he can’t come home with them. Still, having dinner with Daddy at the hospital is better than having it at home without him, so she tries to muster up some excitement. Daddy smiles more when he thinks she’s happy.

On their way to his sickroom, Claire catches sight of someone familiar standing down the hall, wearing a long, white coat. “Dean!” she calls out. Looking up at Mommy, she says, “Can we say hi to Dean?”

Dean is looking in their direction when Claire looks back at him, and she smiles. He says something to the nurse in front of him, and then he comes toward them. Claire tugs Mommy a few steps in his direction, eager to see him again—she has so much to tell him.

“Hey,” Dean says, holding a hand out toward Mommy. “I’m Dean.”

“Amelia,” Mommy replies, letting go of Claire to shake Dean’s hand. “I hear you saved Claire. Thank you.”

“I didn’t do it on my own. You have a very brave daughter,” Dean answers with a small smile. Looking down at Claire, he says, “Hey, kiddo.”

“Hi,” Claire responds. After a pause, she says, “Mommy, you can take the food to Daddy. I want to stay here and talk to Dean.”

“Claire,” Mommy says, frowning. “Don’t bother Dean. He’s a doctor, and doctors are busy.”

Dean laughs, though, and then he says, “It’s fine. I can look after Claire for a couple minutes.”

“God, I’m sorry,” Mommy says.

“Hey, I already said it’s fine,” Dean says. “Go on ahead.”

Mommy smiles at him before continuing down the hall. Claire waits until Mommy has disappeared around the corner before turning toward Dean.

“I hit a boy today,” she says proudly. “He was saying mean things about Uncle Cas and about Grandpa and everyone else, so I punched him.”

She expects Dean to be proud of her, so she is surprised and disappointed when he frowns at her, eyebrows bunching up a little.

“Aren’t you proud of me?” she asks, pausing to chew her bottom lip. “I only told you ‘cause I didn’t get to see Uncle Cas today. _He_ would’ve been proud of me.”

“Your Uncle Cas and I aren’t the same person,” Dean says.

“Well, I know _that_ ,” Claire says. “But you love Uncle Cas, so why don’t you like the things he likes?”

Dean flinches when Claire says “love,” and she wonders what’s the matter. Before she can ask, Dean says, “Claire, you shouldn’t say things like that. It’s—complicated. You wouldn’t understand.”

Frowning up at him, Claire says, “I know what I saw. Uncle Cas taught me to trust my eyes and my instincts.”

“Yeah, he would say that,” Dean says with a small smile.

Then Claire catches sight of Uncle Cas’s ring, still fitted snugly around Dean’s finger, and grabs onto his hand. “You still have his ring!” she proclaims. “Uncle Cas wouldn’t let anyone just keep his ring.”

“No, I—I forgot to give it back, is all,” Dean says, pulling his hand back, but Claire already knows that he’s lying.

“But if he didn’t want you to have it, he would have _asked_ for it,” she points out.

For someone who loves Uncle Cas, Dean seems to know very little about him. Claire isn’t sure whether that’s a good thing for Uncle Cas or not. Realizing that Dean hasn’t answered her, she looks up and sees that Dean’s eyes are focused straight ahead, like he’s watching something, and she turns around in time to see Uncle Cas coming toward them.

“Uncle Cas!” she shouts, running toward him.

He scoops her into the air when she reaches him, spinning her around in a circle before setting her back down on the ground, and she beams up at him.

“You’re getting heavy,” Uncle Cas says with a pretend-frown. “I’m gonna throw my back doing that.”

Claire punches his thigh. “I’m not heavy!” she protests, and Uncle Cas just laughs. “I punched a boy today,” she announces as they start walking toward Dean.

“Did he deserve it?”

“Yeah. He was saying mean things about you and Grandpa.”

“Hmm. Did you knock him out?” Uncle Cas asks.

“No. But I knocked him on his ass,” she says proudly.

“Good job,” Uncle Cas says, chuckling.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean says, tone stern.

“Hey, she’s my niece, not yours,” Uncle Cas says.

Dean shakes his head, but when Claire looks between them, she sees the way Dean can’t help but smile, even though he doesn’t agree with Uncle Cas. She sees the way Uncle Cas is relaxed at her side, returning Dean’s smile with an easygoing one of his own.

Uncle Cas is stiffer around people who aren’t in the club, but Dean is obviously an exception.

“Uncle Cas, why does Dean still have your ring?” she asks. Glancing at Dean, she sees that he is actually glaring down at her, but she just smiles up at him before looking at Uncle Cas expectantly.

“Dean is just hanging onto it for me,” Uncle Cas says casually.

“You never let _me_ hang onto it for you,” Claire says, pouting.

“What do you want me to say, Claire?”

Claire considers asking the question straight out. She doesn’t think she’d get in trouble with Uncle Cas. He likes it when people are honest. So she says, “Is Dean your boyfriend?”

“Jesus, Claire,” Dean says.

“What do _you_ think, missy?” Uncle Cas says.

“I think he is,” Claire says. “Will you guys get married?”

Dean and Uncle Cas both laugh a little, but Claire doesn’t get why it’s funny. That’s what people do when they love each other, isn’t it?

“Only if you promise to be our flower girl,” Uncle Cas says.

Eyes wide, Claire says, “ _Really?_ ”

Mommy and Daddy have talked before about how Uncle Cas refuses to settle down, and while they’ve never talked about him settling down with a man, Claire thinks they’d be happy if he got married.

But then Dean says, “No, Claire,” which is disappointing. Dean continues, “It’s way too early to be considering that. Cas was just messing with you.”

Well, at least the only problem is that it’s too early. Claire is very good at being patient. Turning to Uncle Cas, she asks, “Are you here to see Daddy, too?”

“Actually, I’m here to give Dean a ride home,” Uncle Cas answers.

“So he _is_ your boyfriend,” Claire says, now with absolute certainty.

“Claire—” Dean starts, but Claire doesn’t want them to lie anymore.

“Uncle Cas _hates_ letting people ride on his bike with him. He told me,” she says, regarding Dean seriously. Uncle Cas’s cheeks are pink when Claire looks at him, and she knows what that means. Satisfied, she smiles and says, “I’m going to go eat dinner, now.”

“Go on, you little troublemaker,” Uncle Cas says, giving her a light nudge in the direction of Daddy’s room.

Claire takes a few steps down the hall. When she turns back, she sees Dean and Uncle Cas walking away together. She hopes they’re happy.

* * *

When they get back to his house, Dean lingers almost a little too long before getting off the bike. He doesn’t want Cas to leave, but he doesn’t know what’ll happen if he invites him inside. Cas offered to stay over last night, and Dean turned him down. Would it be too much of a mixed signal if he asked him to stay tonight?

Ah, fuck. Better not to ask at all.

But he doesn’t want Cas to leave, not immediately, and the first thing that his brain comes up with is, “Wait, shouldn’t I check on Luce for you guys?”

“I gave them a call earlier,” Cas answers. “Seems Limey and the Nomads are doing a fine job of looking after him. No need to worry about him. They’ll call me if there’s anything they can’t handle, and I’ll come looking for you.”

“Okay,” Dean says, trying his best not to sound disappointed.

“See you tomorrow, then?”

Dean frowns. “What’s tomorrow?”

Cas shrugs. “I thought you’d still need a ride to work.”

“Oh—right,” Dean says. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

He holds the spare helmet out, but Cas shakes his head and says, “Just keep it. You’ll need it tomorrow morning anyway. What time should I be here?”

“Uh, eight,” Dean answers.

He hovers for a moment, uncertain whether or not he should kiss Cas—he’d gone really still when Dean tried kissing him in front of the hospital today, and Dean isn’t sure whether it was out of surprise or discomfort.

No—it had to have been surprise, because Dean knows that Cas is onboard with kissing.

So he leans down, intending to just give a quick goodbye kiss, but Cas is prepared for him this time, one hand cupping the back of Dean’s head to hold him in place. Dean’s lips part with surprise, and Cas’s tongue slips between them, dragging across the roof of Dean’s mouth.

Dean groans into the kiss and discards the helmet, hands coming up to hold onto Cas—first his shoulders, then his neck, scrabbling at the clasp of Cas’s helmet to get it off. Cas chuckles against his mouth, and Dean punishes him by nipping at his tongue, chasing him back and biting down on his bottom lip.

As Dean gets the helmet off and tosses it aside, Cas pulls back a bit, smiling, and god, he looks perfect.

Dean slides his fingers into his hair, thick and soft, and tugs him in for another kiss, this one longer and messier than the last.

But eventually they succumb to the need to breathe, and Dean pushes his forehead against Cas’s, eyes closed as he catches his breath.

“If I asked you to stay the night tonight, would you?” Dean asks, opening his eyes to gauge Cas’s reaction.

Shit, Cas looks amazing. The street light above them provides them with just enough light for Dean to tell that Cas is flushed, lips swollen. His eyelashes are surprisingly long, and when Cas opens his eyes too, Dean is treated to a close-up look at Cas’s dilated pupils, cobalt blue irises stretched thin around them, and god, he _wants_.

“I… don’t know if that is a good idea,” Cas says eventually, voice rough.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Dean says. He presses one more kiss to Cas’s lips before pulling away and stooping to grab Cas’s helmet for him. He puts it back on Cas’s head and pulls the straps down to fasten them under Cas’s chin.

“And you always said _I_ was the girl,” Cas says, grinning, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be late tomorrow,” he says as Cas starts the engine.

“I won’t be. See you then.”

Cas rides off, and Dean waits until he disappears around the corner before turning around to head inside. It’s been a long day, and all he wants to do is take a nice, hot shower and then fall into bed.

Once indoors, Dean drops his keys onto the living room table and shrugs off his jacket, tossing it onto the couch. He briefly considers making dinner, but it just sounds like too much effort right now. He’ll… shower first, and when he’s all clean and refreshed, he’ll whip something up real quick.

Dean wanders toward his bedroom, but he freezes before he’s even entered the room, entire body going stiff at the sight before him—Alastair is perched on his bed, and he smiles when Dean meets his eyes.

Fuck, Dean needs to get out of here.

 _Run_.

But he knows how fast Alastair is, knows that he wouldn’t get far. Jesus, he should have insisted that Cas come in here with him—Cas has to have _at least_ one gun on him. Dean is unarmed. His only gun is lying in the bottom drawer of the nightstand, and he’d have to pass by Alastair to get to it.

No—it’s better that Cas _isn’t_ here right this moment. Dean hasn’t forgotten the photos from earlier today, doesn’t know what Alastair would do to Cas if he and Dean both walked in blind. Alastair usually likes to play with his victims, but Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to shoot Cas on sight.

Licking his lips, Dean asks, “What are you doing here?”

“I only wanted to see you,” Alastair says. “I want to take care of you.”

Dean swallows hard. There’s a vicious gleam in Alastair’s eyes, the one that Dean had been too fucking blind to see when they first met, and god, how he wishes he’d just gone home alone that night.

“You were very bad, running away like that,” Alastair goes on, slowly getting to his feet. “But I understand. I went too fast, and I scared you. I won’t make that mistake again—you don’t have to be scared, anymore.”

Yeah, right. Dean’s fucking terrified.

He feels a twinge in his wrists and ankles, an echo from the past, and he has to fight back a full-body shudder. The first time Alastair tied him up, it had been after his first attempt at going to the police for a restraining order. Little did he know that Alastair had convinced them all ahead of time that it was fucking _role-play_ , and that night, after collecting Dean from the station, Alastair cuffed him and beat him until he ached all over.

And what happened after that—

Fuck, Dean hopes Alastair doesn’t have his cuffs on him.

Still, he manages to respond, “Really?”

“Really,” Alastair affirms, smiling and advancing toward him.

Before Alastair can reach him, Dean says, “Why don’t you—wait here. I’ll grab a beer, and we can talk.”

Alastair eyes Dean for a moment, and Dean forces himself to hold his gaze, remain steady. Alastair’s lips stretch up into a smile, slightly manic, and he says, “I’d like that very much, Dean.”

Dean flashes a quick smile back at him before turning and heading out to the living room. Alastair trails behind him, not far away, and Dean makes himself move deliberately, because anything he does could set Alastair off. Dean’s strong, but he knows what Alastair is capable of, and in a straight fight against him, Dean’s chances of coming out on top are really low. This he knows from experience.

Alastair doesn’t follow him all the way into the kitchen, and Dean takes out his phone as he opens the fridge, rapidly thumbing down to Cas’s number as he reaches in with his other hand and grabs two beer bottles. If Cas comes in here, guns blazing, Dean figures he’d have a chance at hitting Alastair. And if not, they’d have better odds of winning, two against one.

But Dean has scarcely pressed the call button when a hand whips out of nowhere, grabbing at the phone, and Dean lets it be knocked out of his hand—better for it to go flying than for Alastair to get his hands on it immediately. Alastair’s hand wraps around Dean’s wrist instead, dragging him around so that they’re facing each other.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Dean says huffily, trying his best to play it down.

“Dean,” Alastair says, lips stretched wide in the veneer of a smile—his eyes are cold as ice, and Dean almost flinches. “I’ve been patient with you tonight. I don’t have to be, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says. “I was just looking at my phone to check the time.”

“Now, now, you mustn’t lie to me, Dean. You know how angry that makes me.”

“Yeah, I do know. But I’m not lying,” Dean says, keeping himself as still as he can in Alastair’s grip. “I’d prove it, but my phone’s probably broken already.”

Alastair releases Dean’s wrist then and says, “Take those beers on into the bedroom.”

Dean swallows hard and does as he’s told, heading slowly out of the kitchen. He needs to get to his gun, before Alastair pulls a gun on him. Alastair threatened him with a gun in the past, and back then Dean had been pretty sure that he wouldn’t pull the trigger, but the fed seems a lot more unhinged this time around.

Alastair’s footsteps follow right behind Dean, herding him into the master bedroom. He shuts and locks the door behind them, and Dean can’t help the way he tenses up.

“Hey, you know I don’t like locked doors,” Dean says.

“And you know I don’t like it when you lie to me, so we’re even,” Alastair responds without missing a beat. Passing by Dean, he says, “But you were right—phone’s broken. Won’t turn on.” He tosses the phone on the nightstand and turns to face Dean, expectant. God, he probably chose that spot because he found the gun in the drawer.

Fuck, Dean doesn’t know what to do. He passes one of the beers to Alastair, twisting off the cap of his own when his hand is free.

“So uh, what brings you to California?” Dean asks, stalling for time. He thinks the phone call might have gone through to Cas, but then, it probably didn’t have time to connect before it hit the floor.

“Why, you, of course,” Alastair says, flashing that dead-eyed smile at Dean again. “Sit,” he adds after a moment, gesturing toward the bed.

Dean lifts the bottle to his lips and tips his head back, swallowing three mouthfuls before lowering his head again to look at Alastair. The man has a patient look on his face, but there’s tightness in his eyes, one that Dean knows all too well—Alastair’s patience is limited, and if Dean doesn’t do as he says…

“Don’t do this,” Dean says.

“Sit,” Alastair repeats, tone harsher than before.

Dean exhales sharply and moves over to the bed. Gripping the beer bottle tightly, he sits down stiffly. If Alastair tries anything, Dean can bash him in the head with the bottle—or he can try, at least. Alastair was always faster than him.

“It’ll be better this time,” Alastair says, setting his own bottle down and holding a hand out for Dean’s.

Right. Figures he’d try to disarm Dean before they even got started.

“I’m not done with it yet,” Dean says, tense.

“Dean, this is going to happen. You must have known I would come for you,” Alastair says. “You’ve been waiting here for me, haven’t you?” Dean only nods, unable to trust his voice, and Alastair says, “I never wanted to hurt you, Dean. I get no happiness from seeing you in pain.”

“Then don’t hurt me,” Dean says, hoarse.

“If you’re good,” Alastair says, reaching out and touching Dean’s cheek, “then I won’t have to.”

Dean trembles minutely, unable to help it, and then brings the bottle up in a swift arc, aiming for Alastair’s face. But Alastair catches Dean’s wrist and twists hard, unexpectedly, and Dean drops the bottle, beer spilling out of it and onto the carpet as it falls.

Alastair drags Dean up and spins him, shoving him down onto his stomach with a hand pressed to the back of his neck, firm, implacable.

“Fuck!” Dean chokes out, shoving up against Alastair even though he knows it won’t do any good, will probably only piss him off—more than he already is, that is. Dean never thought he was weak until the first time he tried to fight Alastair off and failed. The memory of his punishment is enough to set Dean’s teeth on edge.

Alastair straddles him, and Dean can feel the press of an erection against his lower back.

“Alastair, please,” he says, forcing his limbs to go limp. “Please, don’t do this. Please,” he adds, because the monster above him has always been receptive to begging. “You don’t want to hurt me. Don’t—don’t hurt me.”

“You’ve been bad, Dean,” Alastair says. He doesn’t remove his hand from the back of Dean’s neck, but he does bring his other hand up to run it over Dean’s cheek. He grips Dean’s chin, turns his head to the side. “I can’t abide misbehavior, not even for you, darling.”

“I’ll be good,” Dean says. “I’ll be good, I promise. Please, don’t—not like this.”

Alastair wavers, and Dean counts his lucky stars that he knows Alastair as well as he does. Alastair doesn’t ever hesitate to take something by force, but given a choice, he’ll always choose a willing participant—to him, surrender is so much sweeter when it’s offered, rather than forced.

“You don’t want to hurt me,” Dean repeats. “You don’t have to. I’ll be good. Let me be good.”

The hand on the back of his neck goes away, and Alastair lifts up enough so that Dean can flip over underneath him. Fighting back the part of him that’s terrified, Dean forces himself to smile, to reach up and cup Alastair’s face.

God, he thinks he might be sick if this goes on any longer.

Dean pulls his hand back and lets it trail down Alastair’s chest to his belt, focusing his thoughts on the goal—if he can just get his hands on the gun, he can force Alastair away from him, can maybe get to his house phone and call someone.

“Beautiful boy,” Alastair says, pressing his thumb between Dean’s lips.

Dean tries his hardest not to gag.

Then the thumb pulls away, and Alastair leans down, pressing their lips together. Dean shudders hard, involuntary, helpless to stop it.

Thankfully, Alastair doesn’t react—hell, he’s gotta know that Dean’s freaking the fuck out. The kiss deepens, and Dean tugs at Alastair’s belt. He finds resistance, as he knew he would, because the holster has gotta come off first. Dean hums into Alastair’s mouth and bites his lip, gently, the way he knows Alastair likes, and then he reaches around Alastair and yanks the gun out of its holster.

“Dean—” Alastair starts as he pulls back, something reprimanding about his tone, but Dean doesn’t give him time to go any further.

Drawing back the hammer, Dean presses the gun right up against Alastair’s gut and pulls the trigger.

It’s been years since he heard the firing of a gun, and it’s loud, louder than he remembers. Alastair staggers back, disbelief plain in his eyes as he looks down at the blood blooming through his shirt. His eyes flick back up toward Dean, who still has the gun pointed right at him, ready to shoot him again if that bullet isn’t enough to incapacitate him.

“You— _shot_ me,” Alastair says, voice thick with betrayal, of all things.

“Yeah,” Dean says numbly, “I did.” He sits up, watches as Alastair backs up until he hits the wall, sliding down to the ground. His hands are pressed to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

“If you aren’t going to—to take care of this, you’d better call someone,” Alastair says.

Still holding the gun, Dean gets to his feet and hurries out of the room. He doesn’t set it down until he’s in the living room, grabbing for the landline with shaking hands. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more grateful to his past self than he is now, for having the foresight to program Cas’s number into the phone.

Less than ten minutes later, Dean opens the door for Cas.

“Where is he?” Cas asks before the door is even fully open, but then he sees Dean’s face and says, “Shit. Shit, _Dean_.” Dean lets himself be pulled in, presses his temple against Cas’s, eyes shut, breathing deep. Quietly, Cas adds, “I never should’ve left you alone.”

“It’s okay,” Dean says, forcing himself to talk. “I uh—I’m okay. He’s in the bedroom.”

Cas pulls away and starts down the hall, and Dean hurries to shut the front door before following.

“You fucking called _him?_ ” Alastair is spewing as Dean enters the room. “You’re stupider than I ever could have anticipated, Dean.”

“God, what do we do now?” Dean says to Cas. “Should we call someone?”

“Deputy Henriksen, maybe,” Cas says. “It was self-defense. He would believe you.”

“A jury wouldn’t,” Alastair says nastily.

“Shut the fuck up,” Cas snaps.

Alastair continues, “You lured your lover into a false sense of security and then shot him in cold blood. That the truth, and that’s what they’ll hear.”

Drawing his own gun, Cas points it at Alastair and says, “I told you to shut up.”

Alastair’s lip curls with distaste. “What’re you gonna do, you _impotent_ little—”

A gunshot rings out, the second of the night, and Dean recoils in shock as Alastair’s head jerks back, blood and bits of brain and bone spattering the wall behind him.

“Oh my god,” Dean says, barely even aware that he’s speaking. “Cas—Jesus, you just—”

“It’s all right,” Cas says, tucking his gun away and stepping around Dean, turning him away from the body that’s still slumped against his wall.

Fuck, it’s a body. That’s all it is anymore—a dead body. It’s not a threat, not a nightmare, not anymore, and Dean finds it disconcerting how relieved he feels, right after seeing a man get shot in the head. He’s seen people die before, has had them die on his operating table even, but the last time he saw someone shot to death, it was his own father.

But he never needs to worry about Alastair coming after him again. It’s over—for good, this time.

“You’re coming home with me tonight,” Cas says, and it’s not an invitation, not a question, but a statement of fact.

Dean nods, lets himself be steered out of the house. Cas puts the helmet onto Dean for him, prompts him to get onto the bike when he’s ready.

“I’m—I should—get some things, if I’m gonna stay the night,” Dean says belatedly, hands already clasped around Cas’s waist.

“I have spare towels, clothes—whatever you need. We’re going,” Cas says in a tone that brooks no argument, and then they’re moving.

* * *

“Bill is angry, but not at us,” Julian says.

“We didn’t get to see him for long, but he’ll be all right,” Aggie adds.

“Not for long,” Naomi says, face downturned. “He’ll be on death row soon, won’t he?”

Julian knows that his wife is hurting for her best friend, but there’s nothing to be done. He feels useless, and he dislikes it intensely. Still, he responds, calmly, “Yes, he will.”

“Shit,” Bobby says.

“Is there nothing we can do?” Alf says, eyes hopeful despite the resignation in his voice.

He’s still so young, so unlearned. Perhaps they should patch him in—maybe what they need is some optimism. But then, blind optimism is dangerous. Pragmatism is far more valuable.

“Nothing will stop him from being sentenced to death,” Julian says, to put all doubts to rest. “They have a witness to the murder, and security footage to confirm it. He has no possible defense.”

“Fuck,” Naomi spits, turning away.

Julian places a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

There’s nothing to be gained from continuing to dwell on a man who is already dead, though, so Julian turns his thoughts to the living.

After the brief visit paid to Bill this afternoon, Darren Chan had called to say that he was satisfied with the results of the Reapers’ morning trip to Richmond, even though they didn’t get the head to him as promised. The protection may be a little late, but at least they’ll be able to ensure Bill’s comfort until he is no more.

Next, Julian had sought and received confirmation from the Nomads that Luce and Limey had been safely escorted up to the cabin. Julian doesn’t feel much concern about Luce—the man has taken more hits than almost anyone else in the club, and Julian is confident that he’ll bounce right back from this, as he always does.

There’s a series of loud knocks on the door, and Julian looks toward the noise, frowning.

“You think they’ve come for Luce and Limey?” Bobby asks quietly.

“Seems a bit soon for that,” Julian responds, but he nods at Bacon, who crosses the room to open the door. Both prospects are in the clubhouse tonight, lingering around after closing down the shop.

A man in a neat suit strolls into the room when the door opens, sunglasses perched on his nose even though the sun long ago. He’s followed by several uniformed men with guns, looking around the clubhouse warily. They’re not local.

“Good evening,” Julian says, getting to his feet.

The man smiles. “It _is_ a good evening,” he says. He stays where he is for a moment before crossing the distance between them and holding his hand out to Julian. “My name is Crowley.”

“Ah,” Julian says, accepting the offered hand and shaking it firmly.

“You’ve heard of me, no doubt,” Crowley says, and Julian smiles as he shakes his head.

“I don’t believe I have,” he answers.

“You’re not a fool, Mr. Morton,” Crowley says. “You know who I am, and you know why I’m here.”

“I’m afraid you’ve given me more credit than I’m due,” Julian says placidly. “Why are you here?”

“I’m looking for Lucifer Milton,” Crowley says. “He’s wanted for questioning in regards to the murder of a judge that took place this morning in Richmond.”

“I don’t believe it,” Jules says, keeping his tone mild. “Luce is prone to violent outbursts, perhaps, but he would never kill anyone.”

Everyone in the room knows what a blatant lie that is—except perhaps the cops that Crowley brought in—and Julian doesn’t even bother suppressing his small smile.

“I’m sorry to say we can’t help you,” he continues. “He left work early today.”

“We have reason to believe he was shot,” Crowley says, one eyebrow raised. “Do you mean to say he was at work, uninjured?”

“He was,” Julian responds, nodding at the prospects to confirm.

“He worked in the garage today,” Bacon supplies.

“He went with some of the guys to get parts in the morning, but yeah—he was here all day,” Alf says.

“Well, I can’t just take your word for it,” Crowley says. Removing a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket, he says, “This is a warrant for his arrest. We’ll have to search this place from top to bottom. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Not at all,” Julian responds, waving away the warrant. “Please, go ahead. I would never stand in the way of the authorities.”

“You’re not going to find him here, y’know,” Bobby says as Crowley waves his men forward to search the clubhouse. “Jules already said—Luce went home early. You should check there instead of wasting your time here.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Crowley says, though he seems less sure than he was a moment ago.

Clearly, he expected them to push back. Julian is just relieved that they got Luce and Limey out of here well before the feds showed up.

Less than five minutes later, Crowley’s men return, having found nothing worth reporting. The agent hides his displeasure quite well—the sunglasses, of course, go a long way toward that end. Bidding them a terse goodbye, he leaves the clubhouse empty-handed.

“We should all go home and rest,” Julian says in the quiet that follows. “The days to come will be… eventful. I want you all on your guards.”

“Should we send anyone up to the cabin to relieve the Nomads?” Aggie asks.

“No—they’ll be all right. And Aggie, you especially need to stay home,” Julian replies. “If that agent turns up at your house, we don’t want him to think that you’re out securing a hiding place for your stepson.”

“He only mentioned Luce, though,” Bacon says. “Doesn’t that mean they didn’t see Limey?”

“They were both made,” Bobby answers. “The only reason he didn’t mention Limey is probably because they couldn’t positively ID him—not enough for an arrest.”

“Just go on home. They won’t find Luce and Limey tonight,” Julian says. “We’ll tackle this mess tomorrow morning, when we’ve had time to sleep on it.”

The men obey, filing out of the room, and when they’re gone, Julian reaches out for his wife, turning her to face him. She doesn’t meet his eyes, and he brushes her cheek with the backs of his knuckles, gentle.

“Ellen will come around,” Julian says. “She’s just—helpless. Angry. Lashing out because she doesn’t know what else to do.”

“There _is_ nothing else for her to do,” Naomi says. “Jules, I can’t—”

“Don’t worry about Ellen.”

Naomi shakes her head, finally lifting her gaze, and Julian is startled by the fear he sees there. “I’m not—it’s not about Ellen, not completely,” she admits. “Can you imagine what would become of me if anything ever happened to you?”

“Oh, Naomi,” Julian says.

“All these years—I don’t know how Ellen did it, but I couldn’t. If I were her, I wouldn’t—I—”

Julian pulls her into his arms, and she pushes at his chest for only a moment before sinking into his embrace. “Baby,” he says, “I would never do that to you. Believe me.”

“And you think Bill is doing this to Ellen _willingly?_ If you end up where he is—you wouldn’t have a choice in the matter,” Naomi says. “This could all go away. We—we live each day like we have nothing to lose, but we have _everything_ to lose. Each other, Cas or Jimmy or Amelia, or god forbid, _Claire_ —”

“Shh,” Julian soothes, pressing one kiss and then another to Naomi’s forehead before tucking her head under his chin again. “It’ll be all right. I promise you, our family is safe.”

“Don’t promise me that,” Naomi says, pained. “You don’t—you can’t promise that.”

“I can,” Julian answers, solemn, one hand resting on the back of her head. “Quiet your mind, my love. It’ll all be all right.”

Naomi sighs, seemingly too exhausted to continue arguing with him, and Julian just holds her and hopes that circumstances won’t make him a liar. He will die before he lets anyone touch his family, and that is a weakness he cannot set aside.

If it comes to a choice between his club and his family… Julian hardly knows what he’ll do.

For now, though, all he can do is gather his wife close and hope that he can quiet her worries, even if the quiet lasts only for a moment.

* * *

“Momma,” a young voice urges.

Rachel feels a small hand on her shoulder, shaking her a little.

“Momma, Momma.”

“Mm—yeah?” she says, slitting her eyes open. Kathleen is sitting up, hand resting on Rachel’s shoulder. Riley’s still sleeping peacefully.

“Someone was knocking on the door,” Kathleen says.

Just as she finishes speaking, Rachel hears the knocking. Kathleen did always take after Limey—they were the light sleepers, while Rachel and Riley could sleep through anything.

“All right; I’ll go see who it is,” Rachel says, slipping out from under the covers. “You go on back to sleep, okay, baby?”

“D’you think it’s Daddy?” Kathleen asks as Rachel gently presses her down onto her back.

“Daddy wouldn’t knock, silly. He has keys,” Rachel answers.

She doesn’t say that Limey isn’t coming back. She still hasn’t figured out how to tell that one to the kids. It was one thing when Limey _couldn’t_ come back, but now… now he’s _choosing_ not to come back, and it hurts more than anything.

Yet Rachel can’t bring herself to leave, can’t just take the kids and get out of this poisonous town. It’s sunk its claws into her, and she won’t be able to escape, not without eviscerating herself in the process.

When Rachel pulls the front door open, she sees a suited man on the doorstep. He’s got sunglasses on. What kind of person wears sunglasses at night, outside of the fucking movies?

“Can I help you?” she says, a sinking feeling in her gut.

“I’m Agent Crowley, ATF,” the man says.

“I don’t know where my husband is,” Rachel says, and she’s not even lying. There’s no other reason the ATF could have for coming to the house, so she figures she’ll just cut him off before he can ask.

“He’s wanted in connection with a murder,” the agent says. “It’d be best for him if he turned himself in.”

“I don’t know where he is,” Rachel repeats, adamant. “He moved out a few days ago and hasn’t contacted me since. I don’t have any answers for you, and you’re not welcome here, so you should get the hell off my doorstep.”

“Mrs. Moran—”

“ _Now_ ,” Rachel says, hands on her hips.

The agent waits for a moment, and then he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a business card. “If he contacts you, please give me a call,” he says, holding it out to her.

Rachel raises one eyebrow and folds her arms across her chest without moving to take the card.

Finally, Crowley puts the card away. “Very well,” he says, and gets off her porch.

Rachel resists the urge to slam the door, shutting it gently and bolting it behind her. She returns to the bedroom and finds Kathleen waiting for her, eyes wide open.

“Sleep, honey. You’ve still got school tomorrow,” she says, too tired to really be exasperated.

“Did Daddy really kill someone?” Kathleen asks, and Rachel sighs heavily.

“I don’t know, baby,” she admits.

She’ll probably regret it tomorrow morning, wishing that she hadn’t left any doubt in her daughter’s mind, but she can’t lie, can’t try to protect her children from their father, not when he’s up and left them like this. _He’s_ supposed to be the one protecting them, not the one they need protection from. But instead he brings the ATF down on his family, at their _house_.

Rachel slides into bed next to her daughter and looks at her across the pillow. “Please go to sleep, baby,” she urges gently, keeping her voice down to make sure she doesn’t wake Riley. “You’ll get into trouble if you fall asleep in class.”

Kathleen’s eyes are sad, and Rachel feels bitter, angry. Their children deserve better than this.

“Good night, Momma,” Kathleen says, closing her eyes.

“Good night, baby,” Rachel whispers.

She’ll call Cas tomorrow, see what’s going on. As much as she doesn’t want to know, she needs to find out whether or not Limey’s really gonna go back to jail.

Twisting her wedding ring around her finger, she closes her eyes.

It’d be easier if she didn’t, but despite everything, she misses him, fiercely.

* * *

Cas has no clue what Alastair’s car might’ve looked like. He got a call from Henriksen earlier today, saying that Alastair had been driven out of town, so he doesn’t know whether Alastair took the risk of driving back, or if he came back on foot.

Oh, well. It doesn’t matter whether or not Alastair took his car if Cas can’t find the car anyway—he’ll just have to hope that it takes a while for anyone to notice the car, if it’s parked somewhere around town.

He hauls the body, wrapped in a plastic sheet, out of the bed of his own pickup truck—last thing he wants is for any sort of evidence to land at the club’s feet, so he chose not to use one of the Morton-Novak pickups—and drags it a few feet across the barren ground before dumping it into the grave that he just finished digging.

The trees here are barren, the ground around them littered with fallen leaves, dried and brown. There are a few clumps of dead grass, brittle and yellow. It had seemed fitting to plant Alastair here, in a place that’s already dead.

Cas dumps some lighter fluid into the grave and strikes a match, tosses it down and watches as the shrouded body goes up in flames.

He stands there for a long time, just watching the flames, waiting for them to die down.

It feels like he’s the one on fire, like he’s the one to blame for this. He should have known it wouldn’t be as easy as driving the man out of town, should’ve known that something as painless as a fucking _restraining order_ would never be enough for the sort of crazy that lurked behind Alastair’s eyes.

But he didn’t know, and he wasn’t there to protect Dean when he needed it.

Cas feels burned by his failure, by the knowledge that Dean could have been raped tonight— _would_ have been, if he hadn’t gotten the upper hand. He remembers the way Dean’s hands had shook as Cas guided him out of the house, the way his eyes had glassed over.

He’d been in shock, and it was Cas’s fault, Cas’s oversight.

It won’t happen again, Cas vows to himself, silently searing in the cool, quiet night.

When the fire goes out, Cas buries the ashes and packs the earth down, kicking leaves around to mask the traces that the earth here was moved. Exhausted, he climbs back into his pickup and makes the drive home—this was enough work for tonight. He’ll take care of the crime scene in Dean’s bedroom tomorrow, while Dean’s at the hospital.

At home, Cas parks the car in the garage and heads inside. He finds Dean in the master bedroom, seemingly asleep, and all he wants is to crawl into bed with him, but he’s covered in sweat and dirt, covered not in Alastair’s ashes but his own, guilt and self-loathing clinging to him like a bad odor. So he strips out of his clothes and hops into the bathroom for a quick shower.

The hot water does wonders for his mind as well as his hygiene, and he feels refreshed when he comes out, ready to be the rock that Dean likely needs, after what happened tonight.

When he crawls into bed, Dean’s eyes flick open, like he’s been waiting. Upon consideration, Cas realizes the shower probably woke him up. Whoops.

“Hey,” Dean says, voice raspy with sleep.

“Hey yourself,” Cas answers, offering up a tentative smile.

“I gotta admit, this was not how I wanted us to end up in bed together,” Dean says.

He’s making jokes. Hopefully that means he’s adjusting okay. “I’m with you on that,” Cas replies, shifting a little to get comfortable.

He had wondered what it would feel like to share a bed with Dean, whether it’d feel more like he was with a sexual partner or a brother, and even now that they’re lying side by side, facing each other, he isn’t sure what this is, this odd tightness in his chest.

Dean leans in and kisses his lips once, soft, dry, and Cas doesn’t press for more, just accepts the touch for what it is—forgiveness, gratitude, affection all wrapped up into one.

“Don’t go home tomorrow,” Cas says when Dean pulls back. “I’ve handled the body, but I still need to clean up your room.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, swallowing hard.

“If you need anything from home, I can grab it for you in the morning.”

“I just need a change of clothes,” Dean says.

“I think I can find you something of mine that’ll fit. You’ll be wearing scrubs all day anyway—I doubt anyone would notice.”

Dean nods. “Thanks, Cas,” he says.

His voice wavers, only a little, but he closes his eyes too, and Cas figures this is a conversation they’ll need to have later, when Dean has had time to process everything that happened. Cas has seen enough death that it doesn’t faze him anymore, was party to a murder just this morning, but Dean doesn’t have that sort of—conditioning, for lack of a better word.

Dean’s hand finds Cas’s under the covers, twining their fingers together, and Cas smiles. Whatever happens tomorrow, they’ll face it as one.

“Good night, Dean,” he says, and closes his eyes.


	10. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Stockton, internal conflict threatens to split the Demons in half. Even so, the Amazons reach out to the Reapers in hopes of uniting three factions—Demons, Reapers, and Amazons—against the Leviathans and 'Nines. Meanwhile, the situation in Lodi escalates, sending another man into the hospital—only this time, it's a Reaper. With their numbers spread thin, some members injured and others hiding out, the Reapers nevertheless find a way to boost their morale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [So Sandra made art for my fic!](http://spookscas.tumblr.com/post/98150895025/art-for-elizayes-reapers) It's fantastic and I cry happy tears whenever I look at it sdlfkjgh. Also, [this](http://imnotleavinherewithoutyou.tumblr.com/post/98188752145/) is a link to it on my blog, because Sandra's got a seasonal url right now so the first link might break when October ends.

It takes a moment for Dean to realize where he is when he wakes up. The ceiling above him is different, and the angle of the sunlight filtering into the room is all wrong. But before he has the time to even start panicking, he turns his head and sees a shock of dark hair on the pillow next to his, head turned away from him.

Dean relaxes instantly, wariness draining from him in Cas’s presence. Cas is safe—he’ll keep Dean safe. Dean isn’t quite sure when Cas became intertwined with the idea of safety in his mind, but he has a feeling that it started a long time ago, long before he left Morada, even.

Cas is wearing a t-shirt, and through it, Dean watches the play of muscles in his back as he shifts a little, shoulder blades shifting under the thin fabric. Cas moans a little, like he’s sore, and yeah, it makes sense, given that he had to dispose of a body last night.

Holy shit, Alastair is dead.

Alastair is _dead_.

The thought sends relief pulsing anew through Dean’s veins. He’ll never, ever have to worry about running into that man again.

Cas rolls onto his back with a soft sigh, and his head turns toward Dean, eyes fluttering open.

“You’re awake,” Cas says, voice low and scratchy.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms needlessly, mouth going dry as Cas shuts his eyes, lifts his arms above his head, and stretches, back arching a little.

Dean belatedly realizes that he’s hard, probably has been since he woke up, now that he’s thinking about it—he just hadn’t been actively aware of it. His brain is finally catching up with his body though, and suddenly all he can think is that he’s in _Cas Novak’s bed_.

Cas looks at him then, and Dean _sees_ the way his pupils dilate subtly, the lines around his mouth slackening just slightly. Cas’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Dean _wants_.

Wants to tug him in and make a mess of him, kiss and bite those lips until they’re nice and red and swollen. Wants to fuck him so long and hard he forgets his club, his family, his own fucking name—‘til the only thing left in his world is Dean, because god knows Dean’s world is narrowed down to Cas, and it’s only fair that Cas feel the same way.

“Dean,” Cas murmurs, something hesitant in the way he says it, and Dean wonders how much of his thoughts were showing on his face.

It’s quiet for a long moment, the silence stretching out between them, but Dean doesn’t feel the need to break it.

Cas lifts a hand, slowly, but he hesitates before making contact. So Dean reaches out, wraps his hand around Cas’s wrist, and draws it down, under the covers. He keeps up eye contact with Cas as he presses Cas’s hand to his groin, and he doesn’t miss Cas’s quick inhale when he catches on to what Dean’s doing.

“Dean,” Cas repeats, voice gone hoarse as he cups Dean through his briefs.

“Cas,” Dean says, rolling his hips slowly.

“Dean, I’ve never—not with a man,” Cas confesses, as though Dean didn’t know that already.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Dean answers.

Cas squeezes Dean, slow and gentle about it, and admits, “I want to.”

Dean swallows, nudges Cas’s hand away, and shifts to roll over on top of Cas, bracing himself on his elbows. He bites back a groan as their lower bodies press together, as he feels Cas’s answering hardness against his own.

“This okay?” Dean asks.

Instead of answering, Cas just tilts his chin up, hooks his hands behind Dean’s head and pulls him down into a kiss. This kiss is better than the ones before—slower, more intimate. Cas’s fingers card through his hair, and Dean hums into his mouth, intoxicated by how well they fit together. Cas’s hips shift restlessly, unpracticed, and Dean moves one hand down to grab onto one of his hips, to guide him, help him sync up with Dean’s movements.

They break apart slightly, sharing breath, and Dean steals another kiss, this one brief, soft.

He lets his hand slide up Cas’s hip a little, enough to shove at his underwear. Cas’s hands tug Dean’s briefs down, and Dean gasps at the feeling of Cas’s cock against his, skin on skin.

“Oh, fuck,” Cas hisses as Dean takes them in hand and starts jacking them slowly.

“Need me to stop?” Dean asks.

“No, don’t,” Cas answers, grinding up into Dean’s fist.

His hands frame Dean’s face, something so tender in the gesture, in the light of his eyes, and Dean wishes they could stay in this moment forever, wishes Cas would always look at him this way.

Dean withdraws his hand briefly to spit in his palm, and he chuckles at the sound of protest Cas makes at the loss of friction. But then Dean puts his hand back where it was, and _yes_ , this is definitely better, a little wetness to ease the way, and Dean pushes his hips against Cas’s, feels Cas hot and throbbing against him, tightens his fist a little just to hear the hitch in Cas’s breath.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes as he gets closer, gathering precome and slicking it down their lengths.

Cas shudders against him, brings their mouths together again, but they’re too uncoordinated to do anything remotely close to kissing, and Dean just pants against Cas’s lips, groaning when Cas slides one of his hands down between them to interlace his fingers with Dean’s.

“I’m close, Dean,” Cas gasps, motions growing erratic.

“Oh, god—c’mon, Cas, yes—” Dean gets out in response.

Cas seizes up first, hips stuttering, cock pulsing where it’s held tight against Dean’s, and Dean can’t help the moan that falls from his lips as he gets there too, coming all over Cas’s shirt.

He’s suspended, stiff, for what feels like an eternity, but inevitably he starts coming down and rolls off to the side, feeling the blood flow back to his elbow and lower arm—his arm had locked up to keep him braced above Cas, and it’s a relief to take the pressure off that arm.

“Jesus Christ,” Cas says on an exhale, words a little slurred. “That wasn’t what I expected.”

Dean’s still catching his breath, but he manages to ask, “Was it better or worse?”

Cas props himself up on his side, weight resting on his left elbow, and leans down for a kiss. “So much better,” he answers as he pulls back, a small smile stretching his lips.

“Mm, good,” Dean says.

“Messier, though,” Cas adds, looking down and grimacing at the state of his shirt.

Dean glances at the clock on the nightstand and says, “Well, it’s only seven. We’ve got time for a shower before you gotta drop me off at work.”

“You’re not suggesting—” Cas starts, frowning.

“No. Just to clean ourselves up,” Dean clarifies, and Cas chuckles.

“Good, ‘cause I don’t think either of us could get it up again that fast,” Cas says as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. He climbs out of bed, and Dean gets to watch as he strips out of his t-shirt and tosses it into the hamper.

“Aw, shit,” Dean says, sitting up when he notices the bruising around the wound in Cas’s shoulder. It looks a little inflamed from where he sits, angry and red against Cas’s tanned skin.

“I’m okay,” Cas says when he sees what Dean is looking at.

“It doesn’t hurt?” Dean asks as he gets to his feet to get a closer look.

“No, not really,” Cas says.

“Christ,” Dean mutters. “And you had to take care of Alastair’s—what did you do last night after you dropped me off here?”

“You don’t need to know all the details, Dean.”

“I want to.”

Cas frowns, hesitant, and then says, “I hauled the body into my truck and dumped it outside Morada. Burned and buried it.”

“That sounds like a lot of exertion for someone who got shot so recently,” Dean observes.

“It was probably just the adrenaline,” Cas answers. “I feel pretty sore right now, but I didn’t even feel it last night.”

“I oughta wrap your shoulder back up,” Dean says, frowning. “You shouldn’t have showered last night.”

“It’s fine,” Cas says. “Not the first time I’ve been shot,” he adds as he turns his back, padding off toward the en-suite bathroom. As he goes, Dean gets an eyeful of the big tattoo in the center of his back, the Reapers logo sprawled across his skin in stark, black ink.

“You probably should’ve called someone for help last night,” Dean says. “You’re not supposed to be exerting yourself.”

“Don’t worry, Dean. I won’t exert myself,” Cas says.

Dean sighs, because he doesn’t believe that for a second. But then the water starts running, and Dean goes over to join Cas in the shower, amazed that he is allowed—that this is real.

* * *

Ruby wakes up gradually, curled up against a warm, broad chest. A hand is brushing through her hair languidly, and she smiles before she even opens her eyes.

“When’d you get in?” she asks, voice still a little scratchy with sleep. “I didn’t even wake up.”

“I got in late, didn’t wanna wake you,” Sam answers. “I’m heading back out in a bit to keep working through old case files.”

“Why’re you looking for old dirt on the Reapers, anyway?” Ruby asks, frowning. “Wouldn’t it be more useful to have something recent?”

“I’m building a case against them. We need to prove that they have a history of violence and disregard for the law,” Sam says. “I think we might have something for more recent crimes, so it’s up to me to find something old that we can link up to the club.”

“Mm,” Ruby says. “RICO?”

“Yeah, exactly,” Sam says, a note of surprise in his voice.

“Did you think I wouldn’t know what you were talking about?” Ruby says, lifting her head to look down at him. “I know what RICO is—I’m not an imbecile.”

“I guess it makes sense that you’d know,” Sam concedes. “Being part of an MC and all.”

“We’re not all like the Reapers,” Ruby says, rolling her eyes. Then she says, “Anyway, you sound like you could use some help. Want me to go with you, help you research?”

“I won’t turn down help, but… this’d better not be a conflict of interest,” Sam says. “Aren’t the Amazons friendly with the Reapers, generally?”

“Sure, but we’re not obligated to help them, and they’re not indebted to us either,” Ruby replies.

“Being ‘not obligated to help them’ is very different from actively trying to bring them down,” Sam says.

“Yeah, I get that. Not an imbecile, remember?” When Sam still looks doubtful, Ruby sighs and says, “We have an agreement with the Reapers to stay friendly, but we’re not required to save them if something goes south with the feds, okay? And what I do personally doesn’t reflect on the club, especially if they don’t know about it. I’ve got your back, Sam.”

Sam studies her expression for a moment, and Ruby makes sure to look as guileless as possible, because she means it. Once upon a time, she’d thought that she would never have anything outside of the club—it had come down to a choice between her mom, her aunt, or nothing at all, so of course she’d chosen the option that would keep her alive and away from having to deal with her mother on a daily basis.

Now, though, she’s got Sam, who’s been better to her than her mother and adoptive aunt combined. It’s only natural for her loyalties to swing toward him.

Sam doesn’t know all of this, doesn’t know about Ruby’s family connection to Lilith _or_ to Abaddon. It’s probably a good thing that he doesn’t know, though, or he’d be even more concerned about “conflict of interest.”

Finally, Sam says, “Yeah, okay. I’m gonna trust you, but you’d better not make me regret it.”

Ruby smiles. “I won’t.”

“Good,” Sam says, and then he lifts his head and kisses her, slow and gentle.

* * *

Inactivity is bad for Raph.

He’s got no patience for sitting around doing nothing, but that’s exactly what he’s supposed to be doing, right now. He can’t go anywhere because he and the other Nomads have been tasked with guarding Luce and Limey, and he can’t do anything because there’s _nothing to do_ up here at the cabin.

Sharpie seems perfectly content to just sit on the couch and stare at the TV. Limey is asleep now, ‘cause he had the last watch from three ‘til seven in the morning. Ghoul is perched on the couch next to Sharpie, but he’s not as intent on what’s happening on-screen.

Come to think of it, Ghoul has seemed distracted a lot, lately. Raph has been so caught up in all the other shit that’s been going down that he hasn’t paid much attention to the guy.

“Hey, Ghoul,” he says. “Come outside with me for a sec.”

“Okay, sure,” the man says, getting to his feet and following Raph out onto the porch. After the door swings shut, Ghoul asks, “Something the matter?”

Raph shrugs, bracing his forearm against one of the columns that holds up the porch roof. “That’s actually what I was about to ask you.”

Ghoul gives him a confused look, but Raph has been reading people his entire life, and this reaction seems too practiced to be authentic. “I’m fine,” Ghoul says.

“Uh huh,” Raph says, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

“Just feeling the wanderlust,” Ghoul says. “I don’t like staying in one place too long.”

He must know how flimsy an excuse that is. Raph almost lets it slide, but he’s so bored that he _needs_ something to pick at. “It’s only our fifth day in town,” he says. “Quit bullshitting me. I know what wanderlust looks like, and you’ve been looking more introspective than anything else. Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

Ghoul sighs. “It’s none o’ your business, Raph.”

Raph narrows his eyes. “We’ve got a lot of freedom as Nomads, a lot less restrictions than any of the other charters, but brushing me off like that won’t fly. We’re brothers. Your business _is_ my business.”

“It’s nothing,” Ghoul says. He seems to sense that that answer won’t be enough, though, because he adds, vaguely, “I’ve got some history with the Original Charter, that’s all.”

It doesn’t add up, Raph thinks. “How?”

“What do you mean, how?”

“Well, this is your first time at the Original Charter, isn’t it? I know you did your prospecting in Reno, not here. So what kind of history do you have with the Original Charter?”

Ghoul doesn’t answer, eyes going distant. It doesn’t look like he’s lying about it, but Raph doesn’t get how Ghoul could have history with the Original Charter that he’s keeping to himself. Surely if it’s something to do with the other members, they’ll know about it. But if it has nothing to do with the other members, then Ghoul wouldn’t consider it related to the Original Charter, would he?

Maybe he’s someone’s long-lost family. Raph almost laughs out loud at the thought.

Instead, he claps a hand on Ghoul’s shoulder. “All right, I’ll leave you to your thoughts. Everyone deserves to have at least one secret or two. S’long as it doesn’t get me killed.”

Ghoul smiles quickly and says, “It won’t.”

“Good,” Raph answers, and turns to go back into the house.

He’ll ask Luce or Limey about it when no one else is around.

* * *

They meet up at a public park, just the three of them—Grim arrives on his own, no following of Reapers with him, and Pesty and War order their men to wait in the car, parked out by the curb. It’s not because they’ll be discussing anything confidential—it’s just that any outsider presence would feel intrusive.

They make their way over to one of several vacant picnic tables, the park quiet at this time of morning because it’s a Tuesday, and elementary school is in session. There’s a mother cradling her baby over by the sandbox, watching over two toddlers who’re messing around in the sand, but the park is empty otherwise.

Pesty and War sit down on one side of the table, and Grim sits across from them. The fourth place at the table is conspicuously empty, and Pesty feels—off-balance.

“So you heard,” Grim says.

“Yes,” War says. “Word gets around pretty quickly. Do you have anything planned for retaliation?”

Pesty holds up a hand and says, “First, I want to know why we didn’t hear about this from you.”

Grim sighs, soft. “We’re currently a little preoccupied with a fed who is making himself a nuisance.”

Pesty frowns. “Any way we can help?”

“Not sure,” Grim replies.

“If it’s a fed, I could call Barty, get him involved,” War offers.

“It’s ATF, not FBI,” Grim says.

“Barty has connections to higher-ups in the ATF,” War says. “I’ll wager he could get them to pull the plug on the ATF operation if he says he’s setting something else up in Morada. Some sort of bullshit about an undercover agent, y’know?”

Grim considers it for a moment before saying, “Only if he is willing. I wouldn’t turn down assistance, but our history with Bartholomew has not always been good.”

“No, I s’pose it hasn’t,” War concedes. “I’ll ask.”

“Thank you, brother,” Grim says. Eyes on Pesty, he says, “Retaliation will have to be as smart as it is bloody. First, I want to know who made the call on Bill. If it was Sorento, taking him and his accomplices down will be enough.”

“But if it was Alpha Worthington, I want every one of them dead,” Pesty says. “At the very least, I want them all half-blind, just like Famine.”

“That’s not unreasonable,” Grim says. “But if that is our goal, we’ll have to reach out for help. The club has a good relationship with the Lin Triad—we just took care of some dirty business for the new leader, Darren Chan. It’s a start, but it isn’t enough, not if we’re planning to go to war in Oakland.”

“The weight of this doesn’t land solely on the Reapers,” War says. “We’ve got men and firepower at our disposal. We heard about the shit going down in Lodi, so we know you’ve got your hands full.”

“Even so, eradicating a club entirely is not simple,” Grim says. “If it comes to that, we need to at least know that the other crews in and around Oaktown aren’t going to interfere on behalf of the ‘Nines.”

“You’re right, of course,” Pesty says.

“Leave that part to us,” War says. “You have enough to worry about as it is. We’ll make sure no one in Oakland will stand in our way. If the Triad comes asking questions, we’ll direct them to you.”

“Sounds good to me,” Grim says.

They go quiet for a bit, and then Pesty laughs lightly and says, “Would you believe I actually miss that slop he used to call beef stew?”

“Yeah, I’m with you on that,” War says, chuckling.

“Those were good times,” Grim adds.

“Yeah, ‘good times’ that we spent dodging bullets and running through minefields,” Pesty says, shaking his head.

“At least we could always tell who the friendlies were,” Grim says.

Pesty nods to concede his point. Life was bloody during the war, but it was simpler, too—kill or be killed. The same principle applies now, but it’s so much harder to tell who is trying to kill whom.

It’s all right. They survived that, and they’ll survive this.

* * *

“It’s over,” Samuel says as soon as the car door is shut. “Our deal with the Leviathans is dead.”

“I assume this is about that explosion yesterday,” Crowley says.

“They put one of my grandnephews into the hospital,” Samuel says. His nephews may think him heartless, impassive, but he _does_ care about those boys, and about Gwen.

“All right.”

“I’ve agreed to ally with the Reapers, to stay alive in Lodi,” Samuel says. “Can you hold off on the Reapers until the Leviathans have been dealt with?”

Crowley frowns before answering, “I don’t have enough information to move on them just yet, but I won’t wait when I do have enough. It’s your own responsibility to make sure your family is clear, when the storm comes.”

“Fair enough,” Samuel says, thinking quickly.

It’ll probably be best if he can motivate the Reapers to strike first, hurt the Leviathans enough that they’ll want to take some time to recover. Samuel could use that time to regroup with his family, discuss their options. Samuel sees the way the wind’s blowing—he’s not _stupid_ , nor is he suicidal. But if he does decide to take the family out of this business, they’re going to need something else to do for a living.

“If that was all, you can leave now,” Crowley says.

Samuel nods and pushes the door open, slipping out of the car without another word.

Everything’s gone to shit, and Samuel wishes he’d just turned Dick Roman down when he approached with an offer to take the Reapers down. But he doesn’t know what would have happened otherwise. Maybe the Leviathans would have started attacking his family anyway.

This is a goddamn nightmare.

* * *

After dropping Dean off at the hospital, Cas goes straight to the old Winchester house to clean up the master bedroom. It’s not the first time he’s had to clean up a crime scene, eliminate evidence, but it _is_ the first time he’s had to do it alone.

The first time he’s killed someone, not for the sake of the club.

Some part of him thinks that he shouldn’t have pulled the trigger, should’ve called Henriksen instead and had him arrest Alastair for violating a restraining order, or assault, or attempted rape—whatever charges would stick.

But from what Cas knows of him, Alastair Kane was a sick fucking man, and carting him off to jail would only have solved the problem temporarily. As soon as he was released, Dean would have had to worry about his safety again, and Cas couldn’t have that.

It’s barely been a week since Dean and Cas ran into each other at the hospital, and already Dean has been dragged in to club business to patch up gunshot wounds on two members, _and_ he’s been kidnapped.

Cas needs to do a better job making sure he’s looked after, from now on. Especially if they’re gonna be—intimate. People who are important to the club get targeted in times like these.

In Cas’s pocket, his phone starts vibrating again, and he sighs. That’s the third time in the last five minutes. Cleaning up here is Cas’s top priority right now, but maybe he oughta answer that, just in case there was an emergency somewhere else.

He tugs the rubber glove off one hand and reaches into his pocket to answer the phone.

“Yep,” he says, holding it to his ear.

“ _Finally_ ,” a familiar voice says on the other end, and Cas frowns, taking the phone away from his ear to look at the caller ID.

Lifting the phone again, Cas says, “Rachel? Why are you calling from a burner?”

“The feds were here last night,” Rachel answers.

“Shit,” Cas mutters.

“I don’t know whether they’ve tapped the house phone, so I figured I’d use a burner, just to be safe.”

“Good call,” Cas says.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Rachel says, but she sounds royally pissed. “You mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

“It’s probably better for you if you don’t know.”

“Oh, don’t bullshit me, Cas. You’re not thinking about what’s better for me—you’re thinking about what’s better for the club. And right now, I don’t give a shit what’s better for the club. If my husband is going to jail, I _deserve_ to know.”

Cas sighs. “Who came to you?”

“Some ATF agent named Crowley,” Rachel answers. “He said Limey was wanted for _murder_ , Cas. That’s not just five years in Stockton.”

“It was club business,” Cas says. “The guy had to die.”

“Just answer me straight: did Limey kill the man or not? Is he going to jail?”

“The arrest warrant was only for Luce,” Cas says—he’d checked his phone after the shower this morning and found a couple texts from Bobby, saying that Agent Crowley had finally shown his face at the clubhouse last night, with a warrant for Luce’s arrest. He’d left angry and empty-handed.

“You didn’t really answer my questions,” Rachel says quietly.

With another sigh, this one longer than the last, Cas says, “I don’t know, Rachel. I didn’t see how it went down.” It’s the honest-to-god truth. Cas didn’t bother asking Limey whether he or Luce was the one to pull the trigger. The hit was voted on by the club, so they all essentially pulled the trigger together.

“God, Cas, I just—I don’t understand how you can live the way you do.”

“It’s just… part of me,” Cas says. “The same way it’s part of Limey.”

“And you’ve never thought about getting out? Getting away from all the—the guns, and death, and—I don’t know, the lies and schemes?”

“Rachel, you can’t just look at all the negatives and condemn our way of life,” Cas says. “I’ve never thought about getting out because this club is my family—my _life_. I’m nothing without it.”

“So all the killing and the violence—do you just not care that your children are going to grow up surrounded by it?”

“Limey and I turned out fine, didn’t we?” Cas replies. The silence on the other end of the line is telling, though, and Cas just barely stops himself from rubbing his forehead with a bleach-covered glove. “Look, Rachel, I know this life isn’t what you wanted, but you must’ve known what you were getting into when you married Limey. It’s in our blood.”

“It’s easy to say you know what you’re getting into before anything bad happens, but then—then something bad happens, and it turns out you really had no idea what you were getting into at all,” Rachel says, her voice quavering a little as she finishes. “Just—look after him for me, all right? Don’t—don’t let him end up on the inside again.”

Cas wants to tell her not to worry, that he’s got Limey’s back, but—well, he had Limey’s back in the past, but it obviously wasn’t enough. Jules splits people up as he sees fit, and Cas and Limey won’t always be rolling out together.

He’s just gotta trust that everyone else is as devoted as he is. Every man wearing the cut has gotta be willing to kill and die for a brother, for the club, or else none of this works.

“I’ll look out for him. You know I will,” Cas eventually says.

“Thanks, Cas,” Rachel says, and hangs up.

Cas lowers his phone, watching the screen until it goes blank. He wishes there was something he could do to help Limey and Rachel reconcile their differences, but—well, it’s not something he can fix. Limey already tried letting go of the club, and he couldn’t do it. So if they’re gonna make it through this, Rachel is gonna have to change her mind, and that’s something only she can do.

Exasperated, Cas shoves his phone back into his pocket and pulls his glove back on.

* * *

Eli finds his twin slouched in a lawn chair, set up under the shade of a huge oak tree. There’s a vacant seat set up next to his, as though he’s been expecting company, and Eli sinks into it without a word.

“How you feeling?” Eli asks.

“Good,” Benny answers.

“I heard what happened—how Dean and Claire escaped.”

“It was just a scratch,” Benny says.

“You’re gonna lie to me, too?” Eli says, frowning.

Benny’s eyes are still closed, facial features relaxed to prevent Eli from reading anything from them, but the avoidance is answer enough—if Benny had nothing to hide, he wouldn’t be hiding.

“I won’t tell Alpha,” Eli says. “I just want the truth.

“He was quick,” Benny says. “Caught me off guard. That’s the truth.”

“Benny, quit lying. I know you better than anyone—I know what you’re capable of. There’s no way a fucking civilian doctor could have escaped with you on guard, especially if he also had a kid to worry about. You can fool the others, can fool even Alpha, but you’ll never be able to fool me.”

“What reason would I have to lie?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Eli says, exasperated. “That’s why I’m asking. You don’t often tell lies.”

“So if I _am_ lying, maybe I’ve got a good reason for it,” Benny says.

“Y’know, I could’ve taken my suspicions straight to Alpha,” Eli says angrily. “I could still do that now, and then you can deal with a fucking inquisition into your motives. You know what happens when Alpha loses trust in someone.”

Benny is silent, and Eli slowly counts to five before getting up.

“He saved your life,” Benny says before Eli can start walking away.

“What are you—” Eli starts.

“Dean saved your life,” Benny clarifies. “And we were never supposed to take a _child_ hostage, anyway. So I made a judgment call. That’s what happened.”

Eli exhales slowly. “You let them go.”

“Yeah.”

Alpha is not gonna like this, if he finds out.

“Dean almost got the drop on me, anyway,” Benny says, sitting up straight. “He broke the bathroom mirror and used one of the shards as a weapon. That’s how I got the scratch in the first place.”

“So what, you won the fight and just let him go anyway?”

“I might have, yes,” Benny says with a sigh. “I already gave you my reasons. Wouldn’t you have done the same if the situation had been reversed?”

Eli considers it, imagines Benny getting shot. It’s unthinkable. It’s happened before, but still.

“I understand,” Eli decides, sitting back down in the chair.

“Now that we’ve gone over me, how are you doing?” Benny asks.

“I’m all right. I’ve been okayed to walk around, but I apparently shouldn’t be out getting into bar fights anytime soon,” Eli replies. The wound still hurts a little, but it’s a level of pain that is easy for him to ignore—he and Benny both have high pain thresholds.

Benny doesn’t register or respond to the humor in Eli’s comment. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us, moving east,” he says.

“You’re not—scared of them, are you?”

“No, of course not,” Benny denies. “But you can’t deny that we’ve seen a lot more trouble in the past week than we have in a long time, and it all started when we made contact with the MCs in Lodi and Morada. Not one good thing has come of it, so far.”

“Well, it’s what Alpha wants,” Eli says.

When Alpha wants something, the gang will do everything in its power to make it happen. Sure, people at the table can express their opinions to sway him, but in the end, Alpha is still going to be the one calling the shots.

“Yeah, I know,” Benny says.

“Are you thinking about bringing it to the table?”

“Would you back me if I did?” Benny asks, and Eli—doesn’t know the answer to that.

He sees where his twin is coming from, but he’s also loath to leave a job unfinished. Besides, they already gave their word to Leviathans MC to help them, and according to Boris, the Leviathans already set off the first explosion in Lodi yesterday.

“It’s all right—I didn’t expect you to say yes,” Benny says.

“I’m not saying no, either,” Eli says.

“No, s’pose not,” Benny agrees.

They fall silent, waiting to recover, to be called upon, and all Eli can think is that they probably won’t get to sit in the quiet like this for a long time.

* * *

“Why’d you get involved with the club?” Gwen asks, pushing off the ground gently and letting the porch swing sway with her weight.

Leaning on the wooden railing across from her, Mike Milton shrugs his shoulders.

“Is it some sort of secret?” Gwen presses, squinting up at him.

They’ve been here for a long-ass time, slept in shifts last night to make sure no one could sneak up on the house to plant explosives, and now they’re relaxing on the porch together. Gwen thinks she might actually go crazy if they don’t talk at all—who knows how much longer Samuel’s gonna want them out here?

She doesn’t really know anything personal about Mike—or most of the other members of the club, for that matter. What she knows about Reapers comes from their reputation, and from what Samuel used to say about them.

Either way, he should count himself lucky. At least he’s not stuck with Christian. Gwen sympathizes with the Reaper who was sent to stand guard with him—Gabe? Gwen isn’t sure of his name.

“No,” Mike says belatedly, and Gwen frowns at him, inquisitive. “It’s not a secret,” Mike clarifies, reminding her of her question.

“Oh,” she says. “Then tell me.”

Mike shrugs again. “It was a long time ago. It was just—the right choice, I guess.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know if I do, either,” Mike says, a small smile stretching his lips. “I’d turn the question around, but I guess you couldn’t choose your family.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Gwen says, shaking her head. “I never really had a choice in the matter, when it came to the _family business_.”

“You sound bitter about that,” Mike observes, one eyebrow arched in surprise.

Gwen laughs, and the way Mike’s expression opens up a little is gratifying. “Is it that obvious?” she says.

“Only a little,” Mike replies.

“I kinda want to leave,” Gwen admits. She doesn’t think she’s actually confessed this aloud, seriously, to anyone. Strange, that it’s someone she would’ve considered an enemy on principle, not two days ago. “I have been taking some evening courses, just a couple nights a week, enough to get an associate’s, but I really want to enroll at a four-year college and get a BA.”

“If that’s what you want, then you oughta do it,” Mike says, like it’s obvious.

Gwen’s eyes widen a little, and she says, “You’re being surprisingly supportive.”

Mike smiles full-on then, and maybe he’s an older guy, but holy crap, he’s actually kinda attractive, now that Gwen is actually looking. What on _earth_.

While that strange realization is sinking in with Gwen, Mike says, “Hey, I don’t hold a grudge against—”

But he stops speaking abruptly, the smile vanishing from his features, and Gwen doesn’t even have time to ask what’s wrong before Mike is snatching her hand and dragging her to her feet. Gwen has half a mind to resist, but the fear she thinks she saw in Mike’s eyes is enough to convince her to just go with it.

He grabs her roughly by the shoulder, urging her ahead, down the steps of the porch, but they’ve barely taken four steps when a hard shove sends Gwen down to her hands and knees, a warm, heavy weight landing over her back. The pain of her no-doubt scraped palms hasn’t even set in when she hears the explosion behind her, sees debris flying past in her peripheral vision, bracketed as she is under—shit, under Mike’s body.

Gwen braces her hands against the ground and pushes up, more with her right arm than her left, and Mike rolls off her, limp.

Fuck, he doesn’t seem to be conscious. Gwen gets on her knees next to him and checks for breathing, but her hands are shaking too badly to tell whether there’s breath coming out from his nose, so she just presses her ear to his chest, and—oh, thank _god_ , she hears a heartbeat, strong and fast.

But when she cups his head, she feels wetness matting his hair, and her hand comes away bloody.

Oh god. Oh, god.

Gwen fumbles for her phone with her clean hand, but she is so not coordinated enough to handle a phone one-handed at a time like this. Blood smears over the screen as she dials 911 and rattles off the address as soon as the woman on the other end picks up. A calm voice tells her to wait, but she can’t—she needs to get the fuck out of here.

So she barks, “There was an explosion, and there’s a guy out here, dying! Send an ambulance!”

With that, she hangs up the phone, gets to her feet, and turns around, tossing it into the burning husk of a house—she’s got burners in the car that she can use to contact Samuel.

She takes one last look at Mike and prays to god they’ll get here in time to save him. Then she turns and races to her car, parked across the street. It’s late morning, so hopefully not too many neighbors will be at home, but Gwen seriously can’t worry about witnesses right now—she needs to be gone before the police get here.

As she drives away, she grabs one of the burners from the glove compartment and dials Christian’s number, because god, what if the Leviathans decided to move on both houses at once?

She doesn’t get an answer.

The next number she dials is Samuel’s. Thankfully, he picks up almost immediately—he must have the numbers of the burners saved in his phone. “What’s wrong?”

“Explosion,” Gwen says.

“Shit.”

“Yeah. I’m—I’m pretty much fine, but Mike took a bad hit to the back of the head. I—I called 911 and told them to send an ambulance, and then I booked it out of there. And I already tried calling Christian. No answer.”

“Goddamn it,” Samuel says, unhelpfully.

“Should I—I mean, I don’t think it’s safe to swing by and check on them.”

“No, don’t,” Samuel says instantly. “No, come back down to Morada. I’ll call the Reapers and tell them what happened. Maybe they’ll be able to get in contact with Gabe—I assume he was the one with Christian, since Mike was with you.”

“Yes,” Gwen confirms.

“All right. Come straight to my house. You did good.”

Gwen flips the phone shut without answering and tosses it into the passenger seat.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, she’s _still_ shaking a little. Why anyone would choose this life voluntarily is absolutely beyond her, and she is getting the _fuck_ out of here, as soon as this shit blows over.

* * *

Christian has just popped open a can of beer when he hears a thud just outside the back door. Fantastic.

He sets the beer down on the counter, and as he treads softly toward the door, he texts Gabe for backup, since he’s keeping watch out front. But the door gets kicked in when Christian is just close enough to get knocked down, and the phone goes flying out of his hand before he gets a chance to hit send, which—god-fucking- _dammit_.

A man steps into the room and immediately pins him down, hand pressed down hard on his windpipe.

Christian scrabbles at the guy’s face, but it’s covered by a hard, blank white mask, which means he really doesn’t do any damage. His mouth opens and closes, involuntarily, attempting to pull air into his lungs, and it doesn’t take long for Christian to start seeing spots.

And then the man’s head jerks back, blood spraying everywhere.

The body lists in midair for a moment before slumping to the side, and Christian gasps gratefully, greedily, for air, even as he lifts his head to try and make sense of what just happened.

To his left, several yards away, he spots Gabe, gun in hand, silencer attached to the muzzle. His other hand is holding a phone up to his ear, and when he spots Christian looking at him, he nods at the body and says, “Pull the mask off—let’s see which son of a bitch this was.”

Christian pushes himself up to his knees, still a little out of breath, and shifts closer to the dead man. The mask was pierced cleanly by the bullet, and tugging it free aggravates the wound in the man’s temple, drawing more blood from it. Forcing himself to look at the face instead of the bullet hole, Christian realizes that he—yeah, he recognizes this guy.

“He’s a Leviathan,” Christian tells Gabe. “I think his name was Chet, but I’m not sure.”

Gabe doesn’t reply, though, and when Christian looks over, he sees a worried look on the Reaper’s face.

“Mike didn’t pick up.”

* * *

David gets back to base—the basement of a community center run by the city—right on time. Joe and Georgie are down there, waiting for him. Joe is on the phone, but Georgie raises one hand in greeting when David pushes the door open.

Oddly, Chet is nowhere to be seen. He was supposed to get back from his job _before_ David.

Then again, David’s job was ridiculously easy. The two people tasked with guarding the house apparently thought it was fine to just sit on the front porch and fucking _chat_ , the idiots. Sure, that made it really easy for David to blow up the house, but he didn’t want people to get hurt—god, the things he has to do to maintain his cover. If it weren’t for the very high likelihood that the Reaper would shoot him on sight, David probably would’ve drawn attention to himself and let the plan be thwarted.

He supposes it’s all for the better that they didn’t notice him, and that they were outside the house—he knows the girl walked away just fine, and there’s a pretty decent chance the Reaper will survive, too.

“Mully,” Georgie acknowledges as David approaches. “Everything go all right?”

“Yeah. Any sign of Chet?” David asks.

“No,” Georgie says. Gesturing toward Joe, he says, “I think he’s on the phone with Edgar.”

“Don’t you have the police scanner on?”

“It broke,” Georgie says, shrugging helplessly. “I don’t have the technical know-how to fix it. Do you?”

David does, but his persona doesn’t, so he shakes his head. “Not a clue.”

Then Joe is walking over to them. “So there’ve only been calls about one explosion—the one you set off,” he reports. “So Chet’s failed. They’ve either taken him down, or taken him out.” Pausing to sigh, Joe says, “Dick is not gonna wanna hear this.”

“So have Edgar break the news to him,” David suggests. “Dick listens to him.”

Joe sighs. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, lifting his phone again. “You can go on home. Lay low for a day or two—or just ‘til we’ve got something for you to do. It’ll be sooner than later, I bet.”

“Just let me know,” David says. He flashes a smile at Georgie before heading back out.

He’s got some time to himself—perfect opportunity to check in with Morris, update him on the situation. Outside, David swings a leg over his bike and straps on his helmet.

* * *

The lot at Morton-Novak seems so empty when Julian returns from his visit with Jimmy and Pesty. Limey and Luce are still up at the cabin with the Nomads, and Mike and Gabe are in Lodi. It seems everyone else is here, though. Julian spots Bobby and Aggie’s bikes, and the prospects’, but—no Cas.

He’d had Bobby text Cas this morning when he didn’t see him at the clubhouse, but now that Julian is thinking back, he remembers that Cas hadn’t been around when Agent Crowley dropped by last night, either.

Where is that boy?

“How’d the meet go?” Aggie asks when Julian enters the clubhouse.

“Just as I’d expected,” Julian says, perfectly aware that they’re just words, that he’s not really saying anything. He doesn’t want to explain himself, and he doesn’t need to, not when it comes to his old friends.

Before Bobby or Aggie can ask any other questions, Julian’s phone rings—saved.

“Hello?” Julian says.

“It’s Samuel. There’s been another hit on one of our houses in Lodi.”

Julian stills, halfway between the bar and the entrance. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Gwen and Mike were guarding the place. Gwen got out all right, but she says Mike was unconscious when she left,” Samuel answers. Julian brings a hand up to cover his mouth, worry making his gut clench. Meanwhile, Samuel continues, “She said that she called for an ambulance before she left him. But I don’t know what’s going on with Christian and Gabe—Christian hasn’t answered his phone.”

Bobby’s phone starts ringing then, and Julian says, “Samuel, wait just a moment.”

“It’s Gabe,” Bobby says when Julian looks his way.

“Gabe just called Bobby,” Julian informs the Campbell patriarch. “Doesn’t look like an emergency, on their end,” he adds, judging based on Bobby’s expression as he listens to Gabe.

“What about Christian?” Samuel asks.

“Just a second,” Julian says.

“Gabe shot the Leviathan who broke into the house. They’re whole,” Bobby reports.

“Christian is all right,” Julian says into the phone.

“Oh, thank god,” Samuel says.

“Thank you for alerting us,” Julian says. “We’ll handle the situation in Lodi.” He hangs up then and says to Bobby, “Gabe still on the phone?” When Bobby nods, Julian says, “Tell him to stay put. We’re gonna send him some backup.”

“All right.”

“Aggie, call Rufus and have him drive up to Lodi to follow-up on yesterday’s blast. The police will definitely mention the explosion that just happened, and from there Rufus can segue into the people involved,” Julian says.

“You sure about that?” Aggie asks, getting out his cell phone.

“Yes. It’ll be better for a police officer to be the first to head up into Lodi after the explosion. Gonna look especially suspicious if we show up before the law does—no way to claim ignorance of Mike’s whereabouts,” Julian responds. “Call him.”

Aggie nods, and Julian looks down at his own phone, scrolling to Raph’s phone number.

Raph picks up immediately. “Yeah, boss?”

“I need you to send Sharpie and Ghoul down to Lodi to dispose of a body.”

“Why can’t I head down with them?” Raph asks. “Or—if you need someone to stay up here with Limey and Luce, I can have Ghoul stay behind.”

“No. I want you to stay right where you are,” Julian says. “You’ve been in this area more often than they have, so there’s a higher likelihood that you’ll be recognized. Sharpie and Ghoul, on the other hand, haven’t spent much time here before.”

“Yeah, okay,” Raph says, clearly disappointed.

“Also, there was another explosion,” Julian says, figuring everyone should be kept in the loop. “Mike was injured in the blast. It’s too early to know how severe it was. We’re asking the chief to drive up to Lodi to check for us.”

“Shit, man,” Raph says. “That dead body have anything to do with it?”

“Yes, in the sense that both events were Leviathan-related, but no, we didn’t get to the person who set off the bomb that took Mike down. It’s all right, Raph. We’ll find out who did it.”

“Damn right, we will,” Raph says emphatically. After a brief pause, he asks, “Are you gonna give me an address for Sharpie and Ghoul?”

“I don’t have it. Gabe will text it to you,” Julian replies, glancing over at Bobby, who has apparently already hung up on Gabe. But Bobby nods at Julian and starts tapping away on his phone, probably texting Gabe with instructions.

“All right. Anything else?” Raph asks.

“That should be all,” Julian says. “The Leviathans shouldn’t know about the cabin, but I need you and Limey to be extra alert, just in case. We can’t take any hits right now—we’re stretched thin as it is.”

“Roger that,” Raph says, and hangs up.

Aggie has wandered across the room, leaning against the pool table as he converses with Rufus, and Julian turns his attention to Bobby, who has finished sending his text and is lifting his phone to his ear.

“Still haven’t heard anything from Cas all morning,” Bobby explains with a frown. “I’m calling him now, gonna see if I can figure out where the hell he is.”

Julian nods his approval and starts toward the front door. “I’ll be in the office with Naomi,” he says.

“All right. I’ll let you know if anything else turns up,” Bobby says.

“Good,” Julian says, and leaves the clubhouse, heading across the lot toward the garage.

* * *

Jake taps his fingers against his knee, bored and impatient. He’s seated next to Brady today, across from Ava and Max, which is good because it means he and Ava can make faces at each other while they wait—Max has been on the phone for almost thirty seconds, which is ample time for them to get bored.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jake notices Azazel looking his direction and immediately drops his eyes to the table, because he can feel the silent reprimand already.

Before Azazel can comment, though, Max hangs up the phone, and Lilith asks, “What did he have to say?”

“There’s been another attack,” Max reports. “This attack and yesterday’s explosion were both carried out by Leviathans MC, not the Reapers. He didn’t really say anything else—said he didn’t have much time, ‘cause he was with one of the Reapers, didn’t wanna get caught on the phone with me.”

“ _That’s_ new,” Ava says, shaking her head. “Campbells hanging out with Reapers. What is the world coming to?”

“Samuel must have thrown his lot in with the Reapers to save his own hide,” Azazel says.

Lilith nods in agreement. “Max, you’d better text Christian and tell him to destroy the burner. If he’s in close quarters with a Reaper, he needs to be more careful. We don’t want them knowing that we’ve got an eye and ear in Morada and Lodi.”

“Got it,” Max says.

“We should discuss our next move with Abaddon,” Azazel says.

Predictably, Lilith says, “No.”

“Lilith—”

“I don’t trust her not to run straight to the Reapers about it.”

Azazel lets out a put-upon sigh. “You don’t trust your own sister.”

“I know not to trust her _because_ she’s my own sister,” Lilith replies, and Jake catches Ava rolling her eyes at him. He lets his lips twitch just a little in response, a hint of a smile, to let her know that he is right with her—they’ve had to listen to this discussion over and over, and it’s really getting old.

Really, Jake sees no harm in teaming up with the Amazons and the Reapers—joining up with them against the Leviathans can only bring the Demons good fortune, especially since a counterattack from the Leviathans would be mostly absorbed by the Reapers in Morada before it could even reach Stockton.

“Well, I trust her, so we have a difference of opinion,” Azazel says. “Maybe we ought to have a vote.”

Lilith scoffs at the suggestion. “This isn’t an _MC_ , Azazel. We don’t have to vote things in.”

“Then maybe it’s time we adopted that process,” Azazel says, getting to his feet. “Jake, Ava, with me.”

Jake rises from his seat practically on instinct, only realizing after he’s already standing that Azazel has effectively picked him and Ava out—he must know that they would side with him. Jake casts a quick glance in Lilith’s direction even as he starts following Azazel away from the table, and the expression on her face is murderous.

Ah, shit.

* * *

The third time her phone rings, Peggy picks up, ready to be _really_ annoyed with whoever’s on the other end—she usually doesn’t pick up calls when the caller ID says “Unknown,” but three times in a row is a level of persistence telemarketers usually don’t have.

“Who the hell is this?” she demands.

“Hello, Ms. Milton. I am Agent Crowley, with the ATF, and I’m looking for your father.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Ms. Milton, before you—”

“I’m not bullshitting you. It’s the truth. I don’t know what my dad does in his spare time,” Peggy interrupts. “Maybe you should try my sister instead. Last I heard, she was in an MC.”

“Your sister’s phone number isn’t on record anywhere,” the agent says.

“Well, I never talk to her, and I don’t have her phone number,” Peggy says. It’s only half a lie.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Oh, really? Okay, let me explain. Meg thinks I betrayed the family because I dared to leave that—that way of life. And I’m done dealing with her shit.”

“Do you still have your father’s phone number, at least?” the agent asks next, backtracking.

“Sure, but it’s just his normal cell number—I bet you’ve got it already. I don’t have an emergency number for him or anything.”

“Very well. Thank you for your time. And if you think of anything, you can call me at—”

“No, thanks,” Peggy says. “I know what I do and do not know about my family.”

Without waiting for a response, Peggy hangs up and puts her phone down on the kitchen counter.

Goddamn it, what the fuck has Dad gone and done this time?

* * *

Meg lets Peg’s first call go to voicemail, assuming that she just hit the wrong contact. She and Peg don’t talk—haven’t talked for years. They actually kinda hate each other’s guts, to be honest.

“It’s Peg,” Meg says when Tammi and Casey give her questioning looks, and that’s explanation enough—they nod in understanding and return to their conversation about the asshole who’s been harassing Casey after her weekly meetings with her ex-junkie support group.

Then Meg’s phone vibrates with a text—from Peg, surprisingly. _Pick up the phone, asshole_.

A second call comes as soon as Meg finishes reading the text, and the first thing she hears when she picks up is, “What the hell is going on?”

“Uh. Nothing?” Meg says, frowning.

“Yeah well, you’re lying,” Peg says. Before Meg can get offended, Peg goes on, “I just got a call from the fucking feds, looking for Dad.”

That’s news to Meg, and she raises her eyebrows. Tammi and Casey have gone quiet, watching her with concern.

“Hey, if something’s going down in Morada, I don’t know about it. Seriously,” Meg says, looking back and forth between Tammi and Casey in question. But Casey just shrugs, and Tammi shakes her head.

“There’s gotta be something, if the feds are looking for Dad,” Peg says.

“Have you tried calling him yet?”

“No,” Peg says. “I figure if the feds are really looking for him, he’ll probably have ditched his normal phone already for a prepaid one or something—isn’t that the protocol with you MCs anyway?”

“Maybe,” Meg says, thinking.

“Oh, and the fed also asked for your phone number. I didn’t give it to him—obviously. But he’ll probably find it eventually, one way or another.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Meg says.

“Yeah, sure,” Peg says. It sounds like she’s gonna hang up, so Meg is surprised when she continues, “Don’t bother updating me with what’s going on—just let me know if our old man goes to jail, all right?”

“Oh, well aren’t _you_ the daughter of the year?”

Peg just hangs up, and Meg rolls her eyes, setting her phone down on the counter.

“What’s up?” Tammi asks.

“I… don’t actually know,” Meg says, frowning. “My sister’s saying that Dad is—that the feds are looking for my dad.”

“Shit, that’s bad,” Tammi says.

“Yeah, I know,” Meg says. “That’s why I’m gonna try and find out everything that I can before we take this to Abaddon—it’ll go over better if we know exactly what is happening and whether or not it’s gonna affect us, directly or indirectly.”

“So, are you gonna ride out to Morada?” Casey asks. “I could go with you, if you want.”

“I might ride up, but I’ll make a few calls first, I think.”

* * *

When Sharpie and Ghoul leave, Raph goes outside to see them off. Limey turns off the TV because nothing interesting is on and goes over to take a peek into the bedroom, where Luce is still laid up. The guy is still asleep, though, so Limey shuts the door quietly and returns to the couch outside.

“They’re off,” Raph says as he reenters the cabin. “Is Luce awake?”

“No.”

“Then let’s not wake him—at least, not ‘til we know how Mike is.”

“Did Jules say how bad it was?” Limey asks, frowning.

Raph shakes his head. “I’m sure they’ll update us as soon as they know.”

“Yeah,” Limey says, sighing. “Jesus, this is bad. The club needs us, but we’re stuck up here, useless. Sorry about that, by the way—I know you’re not staying up here for your health.”

Raph shrugs. “Orders are orders. But you _can_ repay me by answering something for me.”

Before Raph can go on, though, one of the phones on the coffee table in front of Limey rings, and he holds a finger up in Raph’s direction, snatching up the phone and flipping it open.

“Yep.”

“Okay,” a female voice says, “ _You’re_ not Dad.”

Aw, fuck. This must be Luce’s phone. He should’ve fucking looked before picking up, goddammit.

“I must’ve grabbed the wrong phone,” Limey says.

“Limey?” Meg says.

“Yes. Your dad left his phone at the clubhouse,” Limey fibs, making an apologetic face at Raph, who is frowning impressively. “I just heard it ring, didn’t look too closely before picking up.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Limey. I know the feds are after him. Put my dad on the phone.”

Dropping all pretense, Limey says, “We have it under control.”

“I’m sure you think that, but you can’t _know_ that. Let me talk to my dad.”

“He’s not available to answer the phone right now,” Limey says. “But don’t worry, Meg. Your old man’s safe.” He hangs up before she can say anything else.

“Is that—” Raph jerks his chin toward the phone “—gonna be a problem?”

“Meg can be a bit of a nuisance at times, but no, I don’t think so. Abaddon keeps her girls in line—and at the very least, Meg knows not to talk to the feds. We shouldn’t run into any real problems with her,” Limey replies. “Anyway, you were gonna ask me something, right? Before she called?”

“Yes,” Raph says.

He still looks hesitant, though, so Limey urges, “Just ask your question. Meg wouldn’t do anything to hurt her father’s club.”

Giving in, Raph says, “I just wondered if you knew anything about Ghoul.”

“Ghoul?” Limey says, frowning. “Pretty sure you oughta know more about him than I do.”

“Before this morning, I would’ve thought so too. But the guy said he had some history with the Original Charter, and he wouldn’t share. Thing is, I’m pretty sure this is his first time here. You wouldn’t happen to know what he’s talking about, would you?”

Limey shakes his head. “Not a clue. I’d never seen or heard of Ghoul before he arrived with you and Sharpie. But your best bet will be to ask Naomi about it—anything that happens around here passes through her ears, whether it’s through a member, or from Jules himself.”

True, Naomi is only Cas’s mom biologically, but she’s practically half a mother to Limey—and the rest of the club, to be honest, in the way she takes care of them all. Limey doesn’t remember a thing about his own mom, so Naomi is probably the closest thing Limey’s got to a mother. Growing up, it was always Naomi, Mary, and—to a lesser extent—Ellen taking care of him, since he didn’t have a mom.

But then Mary died, and Ellen drifted away when Bill got sent inside, so it’s just been Naomi for the larger part of Limey’s life.

“Then I’ll ask her and see what she knows,” Raph says.

“Why are you looking into it, anyway?”

“Just curious,” Raph answers. “Usually when I ride with someone for an extended length of time, I learn everything about him, and he about me. I know everything about Sharpie, for example, and most of the other Nomads, too. But this is my first ride with Ghoul, and the guy has shared almost nothing about himself. It’s not normal.”

Limey laughs, and Raph almost looks offended. “You must be bored out of your mind,” Limey says to explain his amusement, and Raph laughs, too.

“Yeah, you’re telling me.”

* * *

Rufus exits Lodi Memorial and until he’s already inside his squad car to call Jules. He uses the time it takes him to walk from the sliding glass doors over to his car to think about what exactly he’s gonna tell the leader of the Reapers.

Mike Milton is still in surgery, but according to one of the nurses, there’s a good chance he’ll be just fine. He suffered some head trauma, but barring complications, he’ll make a full recovery. And when he’s stable, they’ll transfer him down to St. David’s. Whether he’s at Lodi Memorial or St. David’s, though, Lodi PD are going to want to question him as soon as he’s conscious.

This pretty much confirms that yesterday’s bombing wasn’t the Reapers’ doing. They couldn’t have been the ones behind today’s explosion—they never would have left a brother behind for the police to find. And it is unlikely that two explosions within twenty-four hours of each other are set off by more than one group of people.

Rufus sighs. Now he’s gotta apologize for leaping to conclusions. He _hates_ apologizing.

He’s still got no idea how to phrase anything when he’s in the car, but at least he’s got his facts straight. Getting out his phone, he dials Jules’s number and waits.

* * *

In general, Bela is not fond of physical activity. Some people manage to land on the spectrum somewhere between powerfully majestic and sinfully hot when they’re exercising, but _most_ people—and Bela includes herself in this demographic—just look sweaty and tired.

But sparring with Abaddon; that is something Bela can always get behind, because it’s good to make sure they don’t get rusty, and also because Abaddon looks ridiculously sexy covered in spandex from head to toe.

Bela throws a swing up high, forcing her opponent to duck, and while Abaddon is still in a half-crouch, Bela hooks a foot around her ankle, toppling and pinning her in one move. Abaddon’s eyes are fiery, but she’s smiling too, and Bela smiles back, victorious.

Then the door bangs open, and Bela’s head shoots up instinctively. She only catches a glimpse of the newcomer before Abaddon shoves upward, hard, twisting as she does. Bela finds herself flat on her back before she’s even really registered the interruption. Abaddon’s hands wrap around her throat, applying just enough pressure to keep her in place.

“That was rude, Meg,” Abaddon reprimands.

“The feds are looking for my dad. He’s wanted for murder,” Meg says, and Bela starts with surprise.

Abaddon gets off Bela, holding out a hand to pull her to her feet. “What do you know?” Abaddon asks as Bela gets up.

“I called my dad’s phone and got Limey Moran,” Meg reports. “Mike didn’t even pick up.”

“You’re pretty close to the VP, aren’t you? Try calling him,” Bela suggests. Meg nods and gets her phone out, and Bela just wonders why Meg didn’t think of that in the first place.

But less than a minute later, Meg hangs up the call and says, “He didn’t answer. I don’t like this.”

“What did Limey say to you?” Abaddon asks.

“Just a bullshit non-answer,” Meg says. “He said they ‘had it all under control.’”

“Non-responses and dodgy answers don’t bode well,” Bela comments, glancing over at Abaddon. “You think we oughta look into this?”

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” Meg says, and Bela turns her attention to her, eyes narrowed.

“The hell is up with your attitude?”

“My dad is wanted for _murder_ , Bela. Sorry if I’m a little short on patience, today.”

“Just take it down a notch,” Abaddon says. “We’re going to look into it, but—we need to know where to start. We’ve gotta assume the Reapers know we know, since you already—”

A phone goes off then, and Abaddon pauses, eyes darting over to the corner of the room where she and Bela dumped all their crap when they came in here.

“It’s yours,” Bela says, recognizing the ringtone.

Abaddon crosses the room and picks up the phone. “It’s Azazel,” she says, and picks up.

* * *

When Cas finishes, the room is immaculate—he cleaned what he could off the wall and then repainted it, and he bleached the life out of the rug. He discards his gloves and takes out his phone, only to find that it died while he was working.

He briefly contemplates going home, but he’s got a charger at the clubhouse too, and he should probably check in there just so they know he’s not dead—especially if they’ve been trying to call him.

About ten minutes later, he arrives at Morton-Novak. The prospects are in the shop, and they both look up when he pulls in. Alf smiles, and Bacon gives him a little half-wave, but the first voice Cas hears is his mother’s.

“Cas! Where the _hell_ have you been?” she demands, storming toward him from the office.

Cas shrugs. “Just around,” he answers. “Sorry—my phone died.”

“The boys have been trying to get to you all day,” Mom says. As she reaches him, she says, “There’s been another explosion in Lodi. Mike was hurt.”

“Jesus Christ,” Cas mutters.

“We’ve got word that he’s all right, but none of us have been up to Lodi to see him yet,” Mom continues. “You should go inside, let the boys know you’re okay.”

Mom gives Cas a quick hug before gently nudging him toward the clubhouse, and he goes without protest. Glancing back, he sees concern written all over Mom’s face—she’s gotta be worried about more than just Mike’s health, if she’s got that look on her face.

It’s impossible to miss the relief in the room as Cas enters, everyone relaxing minutely when they see him. Before anyone can berate him for being MIA, Cas says, “Sorry, my phone died. Though—there _is_ something I should tell you. This morning, before my phone died, I got a call from Rachel.”

“What did she want?” Bobby asks.

“She said Agent Crowley paid her a visit late last night.”

“Ah, crap,” Bobby says.

“He was here last night, too, looking for Luce,” Jules says.

“He must’ve gone to Limey’s house after that, hoping to catch him and get him to divulge Luce’s whereabouts in exchange for having his own name cleared, indisputably,” Aggie theorizes.

Frowning, Cas says, “You should’ve told me about Crowley’s visit last night, when it happened.”

Sure, Cas had been out in the middle of nowhere disposing of a body, but he could’ve come back to the clubhouse after he was done with that.

“There would’ve been no point,” Jules says, shaking his head. “There’s nothing we can do but wait this guy out, at least for now.”

Cas guesses Jules is right. They don’t know how much Crowley knows, but he’s asking the right questions, looking in the right places. As long as they make sure he never gets the right answers, they’ll be safe, but they can’t control what people say. Ellen was pretty pissed off when she left here yesterday, and while Cas is pretty sure she would never turn rat, there’s no saying what she might do for her husband, now that she thinks the club doesn’t give a shit about him.

But since they’re not doing anything about Crowley just yet, Cas decides to change tack. “Mom told me what happened to Mike. How do we know he’s okay?”

“Rufus went up to Lodi for us, gave the hospital my contact information,” Aggie replies. “They called a little while ago and said that Mike made it out of surgery okay.”

“We were planning to go see him, but we wanted to be here in case you showed up,” Bobby says.

“Well, I’m here now. Let’s go see him,” Cas says. “Did they say whether he was awake?”

“They said he’d wake up sometime this evening,” Aggie answers. “Should be soon.”

“Then let’s go,” Cas says. “Unless you think it’s too risky for us to be showing our faces in Lodi, so soon after another explosion.”

“It’s fine. If anything, Mike should look like a victim, right now,” Bobby says. “And we’ll just look like his family, concerned with his health.”

“We’ll catch you up on everything that’s happening in Lodi later, but there’s one thing we figured was a good idea, since these are difficult times,” Jules says. “We think Alf’s prospect patch has been on his cut for long enough. You’re his sponsor—what do you think?”

“He’s dedicated and brave, and he’s got good instincts,” Cas says. “I think we could call him a brother.”

“Good. We’ll vote on it tonight,” Jules says.

“We’re gonna have a lot of people missing from the table,” Cas points out, frowning. “Luce and Limey, and Mike, and—is Gabe okay?”

“Like I said, we’ll catch you up on Lodi later. Gabe should be able to make it back down, though. I’ve got Sharpie and Ghoul there to take his place. He can meet us at Lodi Memorial,” Jules says. “In fact, text him—tell him to wait for us at the hospital,” he adds, nodding at Bobby.

“Do you really think it’s wise for us to be going into Lodi?” Aggie asks. “Even if the law doesn’t see us as a threat just yet, the Leviathans would.”

“They wouldn’t strike us just yet, not when they’re still moving on the Campbells,” Jules says. “And even if they did want to strike us, they wouldn’t do it while we were at the hospital. I’m sure they’ve still got _some_ morals.”

“All right,” Aggie concedes, and finishes his drink.

They exit the building together, and Jules calls out to the prospects—“Alf! Bacon! Head over to my house and wait for Amelia to get back with Claire.”

“Where are Amelia and Claire?” Cas asks, frowning. It’s already getting dark—there’s no way anything at Claire’s school would’ve lasted this long.

“Amelia’s at a follow-up for that job interview she had last Friday. She brought Claire with her—didn’t want her hanging around with the biker gang,” Jules explains with a wry smile as Alf and Bacon drop what they’re doing and go about closing down the garage.

As Cas, Bobby, Aggie, and Jules mount their bikes, Alf and Bacon reach them.

“Actually,” Cas says, angling himself slightly toward Jules, “could I send Bacon to St. David’s with the Impala? Dean’s gonna get off work soon, and he’s gonna be stranded at the hospital without his car.”

“Sure,” Jules says as he puts his helmet on.

“Bacon?” Cas says.

“Yeah, I heard you. I’ve got it,” Bacon responds.

Cas flashes him a quick smile. “And hey, if you get there a little early, check on Jimmy for me.”

“Gotcha,” Bacon says, heading over to the back of the lot, where the Impala is parked.

The prospects had found nothing wrong with her, but now Cas knows why Dean didn’t want to travel alone. Even with his precautions, getting Cas to shuttle him around, Alastair still got to him. God, the thought of what could have happened—

Cas shuts that down quickly, though, unwilling to spend more time on that sick man.

Then Jules is revving up his bike, and Cas hurries to strap his own helmet on. He, Bobby, and Aggie follow Jules out of the lot.

* * *

Aaron knocks on the door to the office labeled with “Dr. Dean Winchester.”

“Come on in,” he hears from inside, so he pushes the door open. A small frown appears on the doctor’s face when he sees Aaron, and he says, “Prospect?”

“Yeah,” Aaron answers. “Cas asked me to bring you your car.”

“Oh,” Dean says, and there’s no hiding the disappointment on his face. Still, he says, “Thanks, then.”

“Could you give me a ride back to the shop?” Aaron asks. “I could probably call someone, but the guys are all pretty busy.”

“Sure, no worries,” Dean replies, getting up.

Not for the first time, Aaron wonders who this doctor is to their VP. Everyone seems pretty close-lipped about it. Alf doesn’t know anything, but he also said that he didn’t try asking, and the one time Aaron tried to ask Gabe, he was immediately shut down.

It probably means he shouldn’t try asking Dean.

Aaron follows Dean out of the hospital and over to his sleek black beauty of a car. Aaron tosses Dean the keys and gets in on the passenger side, buckling his seatbelt and waiting for Dean to start the car.

When Dean’s hands go to the wheel though, Aaron notices the ring on Dean’s finger—engraved with the letters, RE—and it takes a minute for him to come up with why it looks so familiar. That’s exactly the same as one of Cas’s rings, a pair of two rings that spells out REAP.

Shit, it probably _is_ Cas’s ring, Aaron realizes, and he just can’t hold back anymore.

“Who _are_ you?” he blurts out before he can think better of it.

Dean laughs, a surprised sound, and as he maneuvers them out of the parking lot, he says, “I don’t think I understand your question.”

“Who are you in relation to the MC? And—to Cas?” Aaron asks.

The amusement fades from Dean’s features, and his hands tighten on the wheel. Aaron doesn’t know what to make of his reaction—has Cas told him not to talk about it? Or is he just uncomfortable discussing it?

But Aaron has already asked the question, and there’s no taking it back, so he might as well get to the bottom of it.

“I only ask because—you’re wearing his ring,” Aaron says. “Pretty sure those are one-of-a-kind, commissioned by his dad a long while back. And let’s face it—when people come to get their cars fixed, they also come back to pick it up. Delivering cars back to their owners isn’t a service that we offer at Morton-Novak.”

Dean sighs, and Aaron wonders if he’s pushed too far. Maybe he should’ve held his tongue.

“I don’t know what we are, Cas and me,” Dean finally says, quietly. “I just—I just know that there _is_ a ‘we,’ and that’s enough, at least for now.”

Aaron only nods in response, unsure what to say. And then he figures he just shouldn’t say anything—he’s probably said enough already. The rest of the drive passes by quickly and silently. Aaron thanks Dean when they get to Morton-Novak, and Dean just smiles, slightly strained.

As Dean drives out of the lot, Naomi emerges from the office, hands on her hips.

“Was that Dean Winchester?” she asks.

Aaron turns toward her and nods. “Yeah, Cas had me deliver his car to him, so he gave me a ride back.”

Naomi frowns, disapproval clear in everything about her body language, from the sternness in her eyes to the displeased twist of her lips.

“Everything okay?” Aaron asks.

Naomi’s jaw clenches. “That boy is going to ruin my son. What do you think?” she shoots back, venomous, and storms off toward her car.

Aaron lets the words roll off his back, because the anger is clearly not directed toward him. He watches as Naomi gets into the car and heads over to his bike to follow her—the MC is on alert right now, and Aaron knows without being told that keeping Jules’s old lady safe is a top priority.

She starts the car and pulls out of the lot, and Aaron hurries to keep up.

* * *

Azazel arrives with two Demons—Ava and Jake—in tow, at the agreed time. He apparently had a disagreement with Lilith earlier in the day, and he didn’t want to go to the Amazons immediately, in case Lilith had tasked anyone with keeping an eye on him.

“What did you want to tell me?” Abaddon asks.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the news of the explosion that happened in Lodi yesterday,” Azazel says.

Abaddon nods. “Sounded like a Reaper hit, but the timing felt off.”

“Yeah,” Azazel agrees. “There was another home explosion earlier today, and an attempt that was unsuccessful. The attacks are being executed by the Leviathans, and the Campbell family has turned to the Reapers to save their bacon.”

“Where are you getting this information?” Abaddon asks.

“We’ve got an informant who’s probably gonna turn team and play for the Demons when the Campbell enterprise goes belly-up—which it will, if things continue the way they have been,” Azazel replies.

“Are you planning to fill that gap, then?” Abaddon asks.

“Let’s be honest—it’ll be better for you if we are the ones who take over in Lodi. If the Bloody ‘Nines move in, who knows where they’ll stop? They might even migrate down through Morada and into our territory.”

“I have no beef with Alpha Worthington,” Abaddon says.

“No, but it won’t be personal at that point. He’s an expansionist.”

“You want to ensure that I’ll be on your side when the ‘Nines start moving in,” Abaddon guesses, and smiles. “Azazel, what makes you think I would ever choose Alpha Worthington over you?”

“Guess I just like to be sure,” Azazel replies. “There’s also the matter of your friendship with the Reapers to consider. They won’t like us moving up into Lodi.”

“Surely they’ll be more accepting of that than the alternative, which is letting the ‘Nines move in.”

Azazel nods in agreement. “I think we ought to set up a meeting—you, me, and Jules, at the very least.”

“And Lilith?” Abaddon asks.

“She can be made to see reason, after I’ve sat down with Jules,” Azazel says. “She doesn’t like the Reapers, but she knows the ‘Nines are the greater evil.”

“My dear sister, seeing reason,” Abaddon muses, smiling a little. “That’ll be the day.”

“Yeah,” Azazel says. “So. The meeting? I think you’d better call it—Jules will be more likely to accept if the invitation comes from you.”

“All right,” Abaddon says. “I’ll let you know when and where it’s happening.”

Azazel smiles and gets up. “Thanks, Abaddon.” Looking around at the others, he nods and says, “Ladies,” before exiting the room, followed by Ava and Jake.

“Are the Demons gonna split?” Tammi asks, sliding into Azazel’s seat now that he’s gone.

“Probably, yes,” Abaddon says. “It was always sort of inevitable—they are two very different people. I’m surprised they managed to make this arrangement last for so long, to be honest.”

“So would you say that you and Azazel are more similar?” Casey asks. “It’s just—weird that Azazel would choose to side with an outsider over his own co-leader.”

“We have some history,” Abaddon says, and decides to just leave it at that—Bela doesn’t like being reminded that Abaddon was once with Azazel.

Really, Abaddon isn’t all that fond of those memories, either. She’d met Azazel when she was still so young. He’d been fifteen years her senior, but she hadn’t cared—he was rising in the ranks under her father, had her father’s good opinion, and she’d been swept up by him. She’d thought herself deeply in love, in the helpless, “forever” way that first loves always were, and nothing else in the world had mattered.

“Do you think the Leviathans’ attack on the Campbells has anything to do with Luce being wanted for murder?” Bela asks.

“Unlikely, given the murder was all the way out in Richmond,” Tammi says—Abaddon called Cecily earlier today and got some information about the murder Luce is wanted for.

“Still, we can’t rule it out,” Meg says. “We don’t have their motive for wanting that judge dead—he had no known ties to the MC.”

“I still say it was a favor to someone,” Bela says. “Maybe they’re buying good will for support in Lodi.”

“We still don’t know enough to decide that,” Abaddon says, getting out her phone. “The best way to get answers is to ask Jules about it. Meg may not have been able to get straight answers from Limey, but Jules wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Are you gonna talk to him about Luce or Azazel, then? Or both?” Casey asks.

Abaddon shrugs. “Depends on how much time he’s got,” she replies, pressing the call button and putting the phone to her ear.

“Hello, Abaddon,” Jules greets when he answers the call.

“Hello, Jules. Where are you? Do you have time to talk?”

“I’m at Lodi Memorial Hospital,” Jules answers. “Mike Milton was injured in an explosion earlier today, and we’re waiting for him to wake. In fact, tell Meg for me—it’s her uncle, and she’s welcome to join us.”

Abaddon wonders whether Azazel knows about Mike’s injury—maybe he forgot to mention it. There’s no reason for him to purposefully withhold that information from the Amazons. “So her uncle is in the hospital,” Abaddon says into the phone. “What about her father?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Jules says, “I would rather not discuss that over the phone. But I’d be willing to meet tomorrow morning, if you’re available.”

“Word is that there’s a federal agent hanging around Morada, and he’s not just there for Luce Milton,” Abaddon says. “I don’t know how smart it is to meet up in person, especially on your turf.”

“I’d still prefer to give you the details in person,” Jules persists. “We could ride to Stockton. Just choose a quiet location for us.”

“My father has a small farm, a ways away from the main road,” Abaddon says.

“That sounds acceptable,” Jules says.

“Excellent. I’ll text you the address. As for the meeting time—sunrise? There’ll be less people on the road,” Abaddon suggests.

“All right,” Jules says.

“And—after our meeting, would you be amenable to meeting with Azazel?”

“The Demon? Why?”

“There’s a mess brewing in Lodi,” Abaddon says. “Don’t you think the shot-callers in close proximity to Lodi should get together and discuss what the future’s gonna look like?”

“I’m not opposed to it,” Jules says. “If this is to be a meeting between leaders, we should set limits. Two members each, to accompany us to the meeting.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Abaddon says.

After a brief pause, Jules says, “Abaddon, if you cross me—”

“Jules—”

“ _If_ _you cross me_ ,” Jules repeats, insistent, “if this is some sort of setup, believe me when I say that I will make you regret it.”

“Understood,” Abaddon says. “See you tomorrow, Jules.”

“See you tomorrow, old friend,” Jules responds, and hangs up.

Abaddon sets her phone down on the table in front of her and looks at the girls. “Looks like the meeting is on for tomorrow morning,” she tells them.

The delicate balance that has reigned for the past several years between Stockton, Morada, and Lodi has begun to unravel, and Abaddon honestly doesn’t know what will remain when the dust settles. But whatever the new order looks like, all she really cares about is that her club remain whole. All else is secondary.

* * *

Michael wakes up still feeling airy, like he’s floating. He’s a little dizzy, but not uncomfortably so. He is vaguely aware of an annoying beeping sound, and when he opens his eyes, he sees a white ceiling, a little bit too bright.

“Hey, brother,” he hears from his left, and he sees Cas standing right beside his bed. Bobby and Jules appear a moment later, and when Michael casts his eyes to the right, he sees Aggie approaching from that side.

“How are you feeling?”

“Does anything hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Michael tries to say, but there’s one of those mask things covering his face, a tube in his mouth, and he reaches up to tug them away, annoyed.

Cas and Aggie catch his hands before he can, and Michael shoots them irritated looks—how is he supposed to answer their questions when he can’t even speak properly?

“Eh, just let him take it out,” Bobby says. “Pretty sure he’s fine.”

Michael nods, and Cas and Aggie exchange glances. But Cas is the one who reaches up and gently extracts the tube, so Michael decides to forgive him for being annoying.

“So, what happened?” Jules asks.

“And you should probably be quick about it,” Bobby adds. “Lodi PD wants to talk to you about the blast, but I don’t think the hospital expected you to wake up so early.”

“There was—I don’t know, I thought I heard something from inside the house,” Michael says. “I was—Gwen and I were out front. I—I know I pulled her away from the house to get her out of there. Is she—”

“She made it out safely,” Jules says.

“Okay. Good,” Michael says.

He remembers what they were talking about before the explosion—the girl had wanted to leave Morada, but she’d been shackled here by her family. It’s not healthy, but Michael is an outsider, can’t really help her. Only she can do that.

“We don’t think Crowley knows that you were hurt in the explosion yet, but he will no doubt seize on it as soon as he does know,” Aggie says. “Your presence there and history with the MC will make you look guilty.”

“Your injury, though, should tell them otherwise,” Bobby says. “What kind of inept bomber hurts _himself_ when he’s rigging a house to blow?”

“Accidents happen. They could definitely use that against you,” Aggie says.

“What should I tell the ATF, then? And the local PD?” Michael asks. “I’ll say whatever you decide is best for the club.”

“Say that you got a call from someone, asking you to meet there. You arrived, saw no one around, assumed it was a prank, and started to leave. But before you could get far, the place blew,” Jules says.

“That’s—very neat,” Michael says. “What about my phone records?”

“It’ll take some time for them to get a subpoena for phone records, and they might not even decide to go that route,” Jules says. “I’m sure the Lodi PD have already realized that this was more likely the Leviathans’ doing than ours. You saying that you were lured up there will only confirm their suspicions.”

“But Agent Crowley is here for us, not the Leviathans,” Cas says. “He could threaten to prosecute Mike to pressure him into giving up Luce.”

“He’s gotta know that wouldn’t work,” Bobby says, shaking his head. “He has nothing to build a case on here, other than the fact that Mike was hurt in an explosion on what is essentially enemy turf. I doubt any reasonable prosecutor will be easily convinced that Mike was involved, especially if they get input from the Lodi PD, too.”

“Unless Crowley convinces the Lodi PD to work with him,” Aggie says.

“Look, we’re not gonna know how this turns out until the police come to question me,” Michael says. “So just—let’s just see what happens and go from there.”

“Yeah,” Cas says. “So we’ve got something else that we need from you.”

“Sure,” Michael says. “What is it?”

“Need a proxy, for voting in a new member,” Jules says, and Michael smiles.

“About time.”

* * *

“Barty!”

War sounds happy. He’s either drunk, or he needs a favor. Or both.

“Hey, Dad,” Bartholomew says, leaning back in his armchair and kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

“What do you think about coming down to Morada for a couple days?”

Bartholomew frowns. “Why on earth would you want _me_ to go back there?”

“One of my old friends was hurt by the Bloody ‘Nines, and I want the Reapers free to help me retaliate,” War says. “Thing is, there’s an ATF agent giving them trouble. You think you could rein him in?”

“I don’t work for the ATF,” Bartholomew says unnecessarily—War knows he’s not ATF.

“No, but if you said you had an agent in the field, undercover, wouldn’t you be able to get the ATF to stall their operation and preserve his cover?”

“Interesting,” Bartholomew admits. He _does_ have a man on the inside of Leviathans MC, and while they aren’t exactly headquartered in Morada with the Reapers, ATF presence so close to Lodi could be painted as a threat to Bartholomew’s objectives.

“Good interesting or bad interesting?” War asks.

“Could be good, could be bad,” Bartholomew replies. It’s always better if he seems disinterested, especially given the way of things when he was last with the Reapers. “It’s been a while since I last saw these particular old friends, but then again, the last time we were together, it didn’t end so well for either party, did it?”

War doesn’t respond directly to his words, letting the silence sit for a moment before saying, “They could use your help, Barty.”

“Isn’t that always the case?” Bartholomew says.

“Barty, you know I wouldn’t ask unless—”

“It’s all right, Dad. Of course I’ll come.”

Before War can answer, Bartholomew hangs up and tilts his head back a little, eyes closed. If he wants to be in Morada by tomorrow morning, he’ll need to get the woman and the whelp packing, pronto.

But he supposes giving himself a couple extra minutes to relax won’t hurt.

* * *

Dean sits quietly in the Impala, stewing. He’s been trying to convince himself to go into the house, but it’s hard when the thought of it makes him seize up. But the longer he spends here, the angrier he gets with himself for being so fucking psychotic about it.

Alastair is dead—he’s never gonna come back, and Cas made sure of that. But his ghost is still hanging around, making it impossible for Dean to walk into his own house.

His phone vibrates with a text then, and he sighs and digs it out.

_You oughta go to my house. Your place still smells like I bleached the bejeezus out of it, bc I did._

Dean laughs airily, breathless with relief. It’s as though Cas knew he was here, trapped inside his own fucking car by a dead man.

Another text— _The spare keys are where theyve always been_.

 _When are you gonna be home?_ Dean sends.

 _Late. Some business to take care of at the clubhouse_ , Cas texts back almost immediately.

Dean frowns. _Should I be worried?_

 _Never_.

Dean shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable, Cas,” he mutters aloud. With the company Cas keeps, Dean should probably _always_ be worried. But he doesn’t bother trying to argue with Cas, still too grateful for Cas’s existence, for his unfailing ability to dispel Dean’s fears.

So he texts, _Be careful, Cas. See you when you get back._

He stuffs his phone back into his pocket, turns the key in the ignition, and pulls out of the driveway, heading toward the old Novak house.

* * *

When Amelia and Claire get back to Jules and Naomi’s house, they don’t even get out of the car. Amelia rolls down her window, and Alf runs up, curious. If she wants to stay at her own house, that’s not gonna fly with the Pres and his old lady.

But she only says that she needs to get something from the clubhouse and says that Alf can go ahead and tail her there if he wants to keep her safe. Alf can’t think of a single thing she might have left at the clubhouse, but it’s fine with him if she wants to go over to Morton-Novak—Alf was planning to go back there after ensuring their safe arrival, anyway.

When they get back to the shop, Alf counts six bikes, including Gabe’s which is weird, because Gabe is supposed to still be in Lodi, isn’t he? But he doesn’t question it, backing his bike up on the end next to Bacon’s and watching as Amelia parks her car across the lot from him.

Claire hops out of the passenger side and runs toward the door of the clubhouse, energetic as always.

Alf gets off his bike and heads toward the clubhouse too, walking slow enough for Amelia to catch up with him, since the cars are parked farther from the entrance than the bikes are. “So what’re you picking up from the clubhouse?”

“Oh, it’s nothing that couldn’t have waited, but I’d rather have it on me than not,” Amelia says vaguely.

Alf figures that’s enough of a hint that he shouldn’t try asking again, so he keeps his mouth shut and opens the door, holding it open for Amelia to enter first.

When he follows her in, though, he’s startled by the absolute silence, especially since a couple people are in the room. Alf spots Jules, Naomi, Cas, Bobby, Aggie, Gabe, and Bacon all seated around what looks like several of the smaller tables around the clubhouse, pushed together and covered with a large tablecloth.

Jules is at the head of the table, with Claire in his lap. Naomi, Bobby, Aggie, and Bacon are on his left, in that order. The first two seats on Jules’s right are vacant, and the other two seats on that side are filled by Gabe, and then Cas.

Amelia sits down in the seat beside Gabe, and Alf becomes uncomfortably aware that they’re all staring at him.

There’s one open chair right in front of him, directly opposite from Jules, and it feels like it’s meant for him, like he’s about to be put on trial or something. Shit, did he do something wrong without even realizing it?

“Uh. Hey,” he says. “What’s going on?”

Cas gets to his feet, deliberately, a grim look on his face, and Alf tries not to let his nerves show on his face. “You’ve been here for a couple months, Alf. Almost a year,” Cas says gravely.

“Yeah,” Alf confirms, nodding.

Cas is closer to him now, eyes serious, but his lip twitches, and then he shakes his head, breaking into a smile. “Ah, fuck it,” he says, and the men at the table start shouting out protests, but over them all, Alf hears Cas say, “Brother, you’re in. We’re patching you in.”

And then he’s drawn into a bone-crushing hug.

Alf registers the words as the people at the table start banging their fists on it, and he smiles wide, hugging Cas back.

When Cas pulls back, the others fall quiet, and Cas says, “You’re one of us, now. The members here are your family, and the Charter is your home. You protect us, and we protect you.”

Alf is smiling hard enough that he doesn’t think he can actually move his mouth to answer verbally, so he just nods. Cas strips his cut off then and throws it onto the table, back facing up. The others get up, and Alf gets one hug after another from the members—his brothers, now. Meanwhile, Naomi and Amelia start bringing food out from the back room, setting it up on the table.

The last to embrace Alf is Jules himself, and as he backs away, he holds up a jackknife for Alf to take. “Cut that prospect patch off,” he says.

Alf accepts the knife and unfolds it, leaning over the table to grab his cut and get at the patch. When he gets it all the way off, the guys cheer, and Gabe puts the official patches down—Alf won’t get to sew those on ‘til after dinner, but he doesn’t mind going through one meal without his cut. He’ll never have to go without it again, after this.

He takes the cut and patches and puts them over on the bar, for later, and turns around to find the others getting settled back in around the table. Cas points him to the seat at the head of the table, and god—even as Alf takes the offered seat, part of him doesn’t believe that this is really happening.

“Welcome to the family, brother,” Jules says, and then he gestures toward the platters of food that have been spread out across the table and adds, “Eat up!”

Everyone starts loading up their plates, but Alf takes just a second, just letting his gratitude swell inside him, warm and happy. He looks at the men and women around the table, people who love each other, live and die for each other, and is grateful to be able to call them family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "prospect" patch is a reference to the patches that MCs have on their cuts. Prospects will have a patch to label them as such.
> 
> I was going to find a picture of a prospect cut to give you guys an idea of what they look like, but omg look at [this glorious back](http://criticallycondemned.files.wordpress.com/2010/11/vlcsnap-2010-10-28-14h48m29s421.png) instead. Cas's tattoo (mentioned in the first scene this chapter) should look something like that, only I haven't quite decided what exactly the Reapers logo looks like.
> 
> Also, [click here](http://imnotleavinherewithoutyou.tumblr.com/post/97634289595/) for a character list! Scroll down to see notes on the charts. All the information in that post is only up to Ch. 9 though, bc I posted it something like 3 weeks ago.


	11. Higher Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Leviathans prepare to welcome the 'Nines to Lodi. The Reapers, Amazons, and Demons move slowly toward an accord. Bartholomew arrives in Morada. Sam finds out that Dean hasn't been completely honest with him about his relationship with Cas and with the Reapers, which compels him to tell Dean about the letters. But the Reapers also find out about the letters and take the issue to the table, where an unexpected truth comes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I missed last month's posting date! Things were really hectic at work and they really haven't slowed down since. I can't wait for the holidays 'cause I'll be taking a week off, thank god.
> 
> EDIT: I forgot to mention two things in my hurry to get this up before midnight on the 11th (editing took a lot longer than I'd expected). First, this chapter came in at a little over 21k, making it the longest chapter of the fic so far. Second, this chapter was posted exactly one year after the first chapter went up! So I've officially been on AO3 for two years, now. Oh, how time flies.

It’s not really dark out when Casey gets to the farm, first rays of light coming up over the horizon, but technically she isn’t late, right? Bela and Abaddon’s bikes are already parked on the dirt road leading up to the porch, but the Reapers’ bikes aren’t here yet, which is—good. She can’t be counted late if the Reapers aren’t here yet either.

She gets off her bike and starts toward the house, but the door swings open before she has even reached the porch.

“Good morning,” Abaddon says with a wide smile.

“You are _way_ too cheerful for this time of morning,” Casey grumbles, and behind Abaddon, Bela laughs. Casey continues, “I thought Meg was gonna accompany you guys here.”

“She’s staying in town to keep an eye out for Ruby,” Abaddon says, and Casey guesses that sorta makes sense—Ruby didn’t show her face yesterday, and usually members check in at least once a day, so that Abaddon knows they’re all alive.

“Okay, but y’know, you could’ve put me or Tammi on Ruby,” Casey points out. “The Reapers are sort of Meg’s deal.”

“Meg is too close to what’s happening in Morada right now,” Abaddon says. “Her uncle is in the hospital, and her father is on the run. The last thing we want is for her to inadvertently attract surveillance to this meeting. The leaders of three powers in this region are gonna be here—wouldn’t want the feds dropping in unannounced.”

“Yeah, okay,” Casey concedes. “Ugh, your dad have any coffee?”

“Tea,” Abaddon answers.

“I’ll take what I can get,” Casey says, and Abaddon steps aside to let her pass. Casey pauses on the threshold though, uncertain. “Can I just…?”

“Go on,” Abaddon says, shrugging.

Casey takes a deep breath and walks into the house. Hopefully the rumors about Cain, renowned ex-leader of the Demons, aren’t all true.

* * *

Bobby rides up the dirt road behind Jules and Cas, out to a small house in the middle of nowhere. Abaddon had called it a “farm,” but for a farm, it doesn’t look like there’s any actual _farming_ going on.

Abaddon comes toward them as they dismount, followed closely by Bela and a member that Bobby isn’t as familiar with—he could never quite keep Casey and Ruby straight.

His eyes wander up to the porch, though, and he does a double-take, because that’s—that’s _Cain himself_ , of the Demons. Growing up, Cain had been in his prime, controlling guns and drugs from San Joaquin out to the coast.

But Christ, that was something like forty, fifty years ago now, and the landscape has changed drastically, with the ‘Nines and the Triad rising up out on the coast, pushing the Demons inland.

Bobby doesn’t think he ever made the connection that Abaddon was Cain’s daughter.

They certainly look nothing alike.

Cain meets Bobby’s gaze for just a moment, and then he gets to his feet, walks impassively back into the house.

“Yes, that’s my father,” Abaddon says, and Bobby turns his attention away from the house, sees her looking at him impatiently.

“Sorry. Don’t think I was ever told,” Bobby says, shuffling closer to the others.

Abaddon shrugs. “I didn’t want to trade off his name—wanted to build something on my own steam.”

“And build something you have,” Jules says. “Now—last night, you called with some concerns. Feel free to share them.”

“Why don’t we start with Luce? What’s going on with him?” Abaddon asks.

“He is wanted in connection with the murder of a judge in Richmond that took place Monday morning,” Jules answers.

“Did he do it?” Bela asks.

Jules shrugs. “Doesn’t matter whether he was the one who pulled the trigger. He was the one who got positively ID-ed, so he’s the one they’ll convict, if they can find him.”

“But it was a club decision, then. To kill the judge,” Abaddon says.

“Yes. Part of a transaction,” Jules confirms. “We’ll keep Luce out of sight and tee up someone else as a scapegoat. You can tell Meg not to worry about it.”

“Where is Meg, anyway? Why isn’t she here?” Bobby asks.

“She’s too close to your MC,” Abaddon answers. “Better for her to distance herself a little, especially with her uncle in the hospital and her dad at large.”

“How’d you find out about Luce, anyway?” Cas asks.

“Apparently, that fed you have on your tail found out that Luce Milton had _two_ daughters, so when Meg proved to be unreachable, he went on and called the other daughter,” Abaddon says.

“Peg,” Cas says, exhaling. “Do you think we oughta reach out to her?”

“According to Meg, she’d prefer it if you didn’t,” Abaddon replies. “I’m inclined to agree,” she adds. “The more people have the details about this, the more likely Luce will get caught.”

“Prudent,” Jules agrees.“Was there anything else you hoped to learn from us today?”

“It’d be nice to know what your position is on Lodi, but I think it’ll probably be best if we wait for Azazel to arrive before we discuss that,” Abaddon says.

There’s a brief pause, and then Cas asks, “When are we expecting him to get here, then?”

“Should be soon,” Abaddon replies. “You’re welcome to wait inside, if you’d like.”

“We’ll be fine out here,” Jules answers. “Wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Suit yourself,” Abaddon says with a shrug. She walks over to her bike and perches on the seat, arms folded across her chest. The other Amazons take up positions by their bikes, patient.

Bobby moves to stand between Jules and Cas and asks, voice lowered, “What do you think of this?”

“What do you mean?” Cas asks.

“She keeps saying Azazel, but she doesn’t even mention Lilith,” Bobby points out. “Don’t you think it’ll be risky partnering up with the Demons if we’ve only got one co-leader agreeing to cooperate?”

“Yeah, I hear you on that,” Cas says, nodding. “Abaddon seems to think it’s a good idea, but she’s only looking out for her best interests, not ours.”

“In this case, I think her best interests and ours happen to align. No one wants the ‘Nines setting up shop in Lodi,” Jules says. “But we should hear what Azazel has to say before we decide what to bring to the table.”

Bobby nods, mulling it over. He has never been fond with Azazel and Lilith, but he still holds some fondness for the _idea_ of the Demons. He grew up hearing about them, wanting to be tough like them, hard, strong, and he supposes some childlike part of him still has a soft spot for the organization, even though it isn’t what it once was.

They hear engines about fifteen minutes later, and Bobby straightens from where he was leaning on his bike, watching as the Amazons across from them do the same. The Demons roll up a short while later, in a black sedan. Bobby doesn’t recognize the driver, but he knows the girl who gets out—Ava Wilson.

As Azazel gets out of the back of the car, Abaddon walks over to meet him, shaking his hand firmly. They walk over to Jules together, as though they’re already a united front, and Bobby wonders if that’s how it’s gonna be, if the Reapers elect not to ally with the Demons—is this an all or nothing situation?

“Good morning, Azazel,” Jules says with a quick smile, shaking the Demon’s hand.

Azazel smiles back, and it looks sincere, but Bobby can’t be sure. When guys have been in the game as long as Azazel has—and Bobby and Jules, really—they get especially hard to read.

“Morning,” Azazel answers. “Glad you could come.”

“These are unique circumstances,” Jules says. “In the interest of full disclosure, I must confess I have some reservations about your co-leader’s absence from this meeting.” The lines around Azazel’s mouth tighten just a little, but there is no other visible reaction. Meanwhile, Jules continues, “Does she even know that you’re here?”

“She does not,” Azazel says, to Bobby’s surprise—he hadn’t expected him to be frank.

“Yet I’ve been led to believe you want to ally with us. How can we trust you if you and your co-leader are not working together?” Jules asks.

“My dependability has nothing to do with whether I get along with Lilith,” Azazel says.

“But your ability to follow through on an alliance with us does have to do with Lilith,” Jules says. “Unless you’re planning to break away from the gang,” he adds, glancing at Abaddon as he says so. “Is that what you’re planning?”

“If he is, it’s news to me,” Abaddon says, turning her eyes on Azazel.

Azazel shakes his head. “For all of our differences, this is the one thing we have in common—we do not want the Demons to break up. We are stronger as one. This disagreement of ours will be resolved internally, so you don’t have to worry. Lilith will understand that we all need to stand together against the bigger threat.”

“If she really understood that, she would be here right now,” Cas says.

Azazel doesn’t answer immediately, so Jules says, “He’s right. We won’t take the risk of her splitting away with half of your manpower and going to the ‘Nines. She may dislike the Leviathans, but she dislikes us just as much, so there is no reason for her to help us over them.”

“Even if I can’t bring all of my men with me, it would still be support for you—better than nothing,” Azazel says.

“Not necessarily. If we don’t bring you into the mix—if this alliance between us does not happen, then do you agree that Lilith most likely would not break away from the Demons?” When Azazel nods, Jules continues, “If the two of you remain co-leaders of the Demons, then we can at least rest assured that the ‘Nines and Leviathans will receive no assistance from you.”

“If the split were to happen, how do you think your men would divide up?” Abaddon asks.

“Hard to say,” Azazel says. Jerking a thumb behind him, he says. “These two pull with them several members each, but Lilith has plenty in her pocket, too. I’d say it would probably split down the middle.”

Jules puts his hands on his hips and says, “We really shouldn’t be discussing any alliances before you sort out your internal issues. How long do you think you’ll need?”

“I don’t know. A day or two,” Azazel answers.

“But if Lilith is on board, will you agree to an alliance?” Abaddon asks Jules.

“We’ll have to vote it in,” Jules says.

“Yes, of course. But would you personally endorse it?”

“I don’t like hypothetical questions,” Jules replies, and Bobby figures it’s a wise move, staying evasive. Jules prides himself in being a man of his word, so it is essential that he doesn’t promise anything he doesn’t intend to follow through on. “We’ll meet again when you’ve found out where Lilith falls on this.”

“Fair enough,” Azazel says, but he doesn’t bother to hide his disappointment.

“I take it you’re not willing to discuss the situation in Lodi, then,” Abaddon says, looking back and forth between Jules and Azazel. “I for one would like to know what exactly went on.”

“All you need to know is that the Leviathans have made their move on the Campbells, which means the ‘Nines will likely be arriving in Lodi soon,” Jules answers. “Unless there’s anything else, we’re leaving.”

Azazel nods, and then he looks over at Abaddon and asks, “Is your father in? It’s been a while.”

“He’s expecting you,” Abaddon replies, so Azazel gives Jules a casual salute before heading up toward the house, his two followers trailing after him.

“Does Cain still have influence over what the Demons do?” Bobby asks, eyes on Azazel’s back.

“No, not that I’ve heard,” Abaddon replies. Looking at Bobby, Jules, and Cas in turn, she says, “I’ll make contact when I get news about Lilith. But if anything drastic happens in Lodi or Morada, will you keep us informed?”

“If it’ll affect you,” Jules replies, starting to turn away. “Boys, let’s go.”

As Bobby goes over to his bike, he hears Cas say, “You should tell Meg that Mike has been transferred over to St. David’s, in case she wants to visit.”

“Thank you, Cas,” Abaddon says.

Bobby sends a questioning look Cas’s way when Cas comes over to get on his own bike, but he only shrugs. There’s some history there, between Cas and Meg, and to be honest, she’d be better for Cas than Dean would. At the very least, they’d understand each other perfectly, both being in the life and all.

Dean… Dean has always had unique influence over Cas, and that could mean trouble.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, when Victor opens the door to Mike Milton’s hospital room, a Reaper looks up from a chair by the sickbed, alert.

“Hello, Deputy,” he says, getting to his feet.

Victor recognizes him as Aaron Bass, prospect, so he replies, “Hello, Aaron.”

The guy looks surprised that Victor knows his name, but he doesn’t comment on it—instead, he says, “You should leave. Mike is out of it anyway, so you won’t get any answers from him.”

“All right,” Victor says, looking at the unconscious man in the sickbed.

The Reapers always give off the illusion that they’re untouchable, and seeing Mike Milton here, an ugly bruise on his right cheek, the top of his head wrapped in bandages, reminds Victor that they’re only human, that they can be vulnerable, too.

He backs out of the room, and Bass seems relieved. Victor shuts the door behind him and heads over to Dean’s office—it’s unlikely that Dean will have any information about Mike, seeing as he was transferred in early this morning, but Victor should probably ask about Alastair, make sure that the guy left town and stayed out of town.

The door to Dean’s office is closed, but before Victor can go to the foyer to ask whether he’s in, the man himself comes around the corner.

“Oh, hey,” Dean says, smiling.

“‘Morning. I was wondering if you had a minute to talk,” Victor says.

“Sure,” Dean says, passing by Victor to open the door to his office.

They walk inside, and Victor says, “I uh, wanted to know if everything’s okay, for you.”

Dean frowns at him, apparently not understanding the question. “I’m fine,” he says.

“Well—I’m asking about Alastair Kane,” Victor admits, and Dean’s expression shifts a little, something a little fearful in his eyes. “I followed up with his handler in Chicago, and he never showed up, so I just wanted to make sure he didn’t come back to town or something.”

“I haven’t seen him since he was here on Sunday,” Dean replies, and Victor sighs in relief.

“Okay, that’s good,” he says.

“Thanks for kicking him out of town, by the way,” Dean says. “I’ll sleep a lot easier at night knowing he’s not in Morada anymore.”

“It’s no problem,” Victor says. Changing tack, he says, “Mike Milton was transferred here early this morning. Do you know anything about that?”

Dean shakes his head. “No, I hadn’t heard he was here,” he says. “Guess he wasn’t put on my roster. I have a two-hour surgery to go to in a bit, but I can check on him after I get out of it, if you’d like.”

“That’d be great,” Victor says. “I’ll let you get ready to go save lives, now.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, okay. Talk to you later.”

* * *

“Still no news on Chet?” Dick asks.

“None,” Joe says.

“We’ve gotta assume the Reapers either took him or killed him,” Edgar says, rubbing a hand across his chin. “My money’s on the latter.”

“So should we send someone back in there, make sure the place actually blows this time?” Joe asks.

“Not a smart move,” Mully says—the guy usually doesn’t contribute much at meetings, but Edgar likes him because the things he does decide to say are sensible. It’s always nice to work with someone who has a brain.

“Yeah,” Edgar agrees. “We have confirmation that some of the Reapers are in town now, and we don’t need to risk someone else to destroy the last Campbell house. Local PD already suspects that we were behind the last two blasts, and there is only so much I can do before people will start to pick up on my relation to the club. They haven’t talked to Mike Milton yet, but they’ll no doubt be even surer of our involvement after talking to him.”

“Shit. We should kill him to keep him quiet, then. Right?” Georgie says.

“He was transferred to St. David’s first thing this morning, before the sun was up,” Edgar says. “So if you want to whack him on Reaper territory and get yourself killed, be my guest.”

“The local police aren’t our biggest concern,” Dick says. “We’ve had brushes with them before, and this will blow over just like everything else has blown over. What we ought to do now is reach out to the ‘Nines and let them know it’s about time they came here.”

“Last time I called, they were surprisingly noncommittal,” Joe says, frowning.

“We’ve already lost a man to this fight,” Dick says. “I’m sure they’ll be more understanding if we ask them to come now.” Eyes on Edgar, he asks, “Have we figured out their accommodations yet?”

“Yes,” Edgar replies. “I acquired a storefront for them, downtown. It’s an antique store, called Out with the Old.”

Dick grins. “Fitting. Out with the Campbells, in with the ‘Nines.”

“All right. I’ll give Boris a call, then,” Joe says.

“No,” Dick says, taking out his phone and setting it down on the table in front of him. “No, we’re going to call Alpha right now. I don’t like going through Boris.” Looking around, he asks, “Any objections?”

“None from me,” Edgar says.

The others shake their heads, so Dick dials Alpha’s number and waits for the call to connect.

* * *

When they get back to the clubhouse, a familiar car is parked out front—a sleek, black BMW, parked at a slant that takes up far more space than necessary.

“That asshole,” Cas says as he gets off his bike, and Bobby nods his agreement.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Bobby demands. Cas is about to get all defensive, because he never heard a thing about Bartholomew coming into town, but then he notices that Bobby’s eyes are on Jules.

“I don’t know,” Jules says, but Cas doubts that.

“You never should’ve agreed to call him in without putting it to a vote,” Bobby says angrily, because he obviously shares Cas’s doubts.

“It wasn’t my call,” Jules says. “It was Jimmy’s.”

“Jimmy T should’ve fucking known better, then,” Bobby says.

“We’re all angry about what happened to Bill,” Jules says. “With the ATF on our back, our options are severely limited. Bartholomew is here to get the feds out of Morada.”

“In return for what?” Bobby grumbles, but he’s already heading toward the clubhouse, where Bartholomew is surely waiting for them.

“Don’t take it personally,” Cas says to his stepfather. “This is about Mike. You should’ve said something before telling Big Jimmy it was okay to call him.”

“Big Jimmy doesn’t take orders from me,” Jules says stiffly. “He is my friend.”

“Yeah well, we’re your brothers,” Cas says. “You’re not stupid—even if you’re not sore about what he did to Mike, the rest of us still are.”

Jules sighs. “Let’s just go inside,” he says, starting toward the clubhouse. “We’d better get to Bobby before he knocks Bartholomew on his ass and makes this all pointless.”

Cas follows the president indoors, only a little apprehensive. The guys are still pretty damn bitter about the mess Bartholomew made when he was last in town, something like four years ago. Sure, it’s been a long while, but the club doesn’t forget people who slight them.

It’s probably best that Mike is in the hospital right now, not here to see Bartholomew.

“Where is my good friend, anyway?” Bartholomew is saying as Cas enters the room.

“You keep your fucking mouth shut about him,” Gabe says from behind the bar. Bobby, Aggie, and Alf are sitting in front of the bar, leaning back on it, and Bartholomew stands a short distance from them.

“Sheesh. It was four years ago, guys—don’t have to be so touchy about it,” Bartholomew says, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. “His brother’s not here, either. What happened?”

“That is none of your concern,” Bobby says.

“Au contraire, I was called here as a favor to you guys, and if I’m to do my job effectively, everything this club does is my concern. If I help you and you do something stupid, it’s my neck on the line.”

“We will tell you what you need to know and nothing more,” Jules says. “If you can’t operate on those terms, you’re more than welcome to leave.”

Bartholomew draws himself completely upright as Jules goes over to him, meeting his gaze, but Cas thinks he sees a flicker of uncertainty in the man’s eyes. That makes sense, though, because Jules never fails to unsettle people, if he puts his mind to it.

“You’re not very polite, for a group of people asking for help,” Bartholomew says.

“ _We_ never asked for your _help_ ,” Gabe says, and Cas thinks Aggie should probably cover his mouth—Bartholomew is clearly under the impression that the club asked for his help, which translates into Jules asking for him to be here. Gabe blurting out something like that undermines Jules’s authority.

Sure enough, Bartholomew raises an eyebrow. “That certainly isn’t what _I_ heard,” he says.

“We have an ATF problem,” Cas says, speaking up before this can get tenser than it already is.

“Got a dog nipping at your heels?” Bartholomew says. “What does he want you for?”

“Guess,” Cas says wryly, moving to stand next to his president.

“I’m not here to play guessing games with you, Cas.”

“He wants anything he can find,” Aggie jumps in. “He hasn’t found anything yet, and we’d like him out of town before he does.”

“So you want me to talk to his handlers, have them muzzle their dog,” Bartholomew says, smug as always. The guy gets drunk on power—having power over others, or at least _thinking_ that he has power over others. “You have nothing to offer me, you know. There is nothing you have that I want.”

“You’re right about that,” Gabe says. “You already took what you wanted the last time you were here.”

“I need incentive, if I’m gonna risk my job for you,” Bartholomew says. Looking around the room, he says, “You’re all so riled up just over my being here that I don’t know whether you’ll shoot me the minute I turn my back.”

“Oh, believe me, if we were going to do that, you wouldn’t have made it past the front door,” Jules says.

“Y’know what, after last time, I think you owe us one,” Bobby says. “For Mike.”

“You really think that’s going to work on me,” Bartholomew says.

“He’s in the hospital right now, and you’re the reason why none of his blood family is around,” Bobby says. “So yeah, I think that’s going to work on you.”

“Sympathy card, Bobby? That’s weak,” Bartholomew says, laughing.

“If you didn’t want to help us, why did you come here?” Cas asks impatiently. “Are you seriously petty enough to drive all the way out here just to laugh at us?”

Bartholomew stops laughing, a smile lingering about his lips. “Yeah, all right,” he says. “Guess I got a soft spot for you. And the ATF being in Morada is inconvenient for me, too. I’ve got a legit case going on, don’t want them nosing around too close to my target.”

“Who’s your target?” Bobby asks.

“Quid pro quo,” Bartholomew says. “If you want me to talk about my case, you’d better tell me what’s going on with you.”

“Not a chance,” Cas says, smiling.

Bartholomew smiles back at him and says, “Well, this was pleasant. I’ll head out, do a bit of surveying, and get back to you tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Jules says as Bartholomew walks past them.

“Tell Mike to get better soon. I miss his ugly mug.”

“Oh, get the hell outta here,” Cas says, shoving at the man’s back.

Bartholomew just laughs and leaves the room, and several pairs of accusing eyes fall on Jules. He doesn’t quail, of course—Jules is resolute, hard as rock, and it’ll take more than a couple nasty looks to make him uncomfortable.

“I did not ask for him to be here,” Jules says. “Jimmy T said he’d call him. I wasn’t even sure he would come—and I certainly did not expect him to get here so soon.”

“That son of a bitch,” Gabe says. Eyes on Cas, he says, “Why’d you have to be all chummy with him?”

“We can use him,” Cas answers simply. “If we can get his assistance without becoming indebted to him, I’m down for being a little friendlier.”

No one else comments, and Jules says, “Moving on. We should have someone take Dean up to the cabin to check on Luce, make sure he’s still kicking.”

“They would’ve called if he croaked,” Gabe says.

“I’ll call Sharpie,” Bobby says. “Raph’s gotta be chomping at the bit to come down and get in on some action. We can let Sharpie or Ghoul lead Dean up to the cabin and take over for him.”

“I’ll call Dean and ask if he’s free,” Cas says, getting out his phone and heading toward the back rooms.

“He _has_ to go,” Jules says, frowning.

Rolling his eyes, Cas doesn’t even bother turning to face Jules as he answers, “Then consider it a courtesy call, all right? Be back out in a sec.”

* * *

When Jimmy wakes up, he sees Mom seated at his bedside, head bowed a little, propped up by her hand, elbow braced on the arm of her chair.

“Mom,” he says, and her hand slips, her head jolting forward a little. And then she’s looking up, blinking away the drowsiness.

“Jimmy, you’re awake,” she says, smiling.

“Yeah,” Jimmy says. “Hey, when is my asshole of a brother coming to visit? It’s been a couple of days since the last time, and yeah, he got shot, but I _know_ he’s okay, ‘cause Dean’s been in to see me every morning—he’s kept me updated.”

Mom had looked ready to answer when Jimmy first started speaking, but at the mention of Dean, her expression shuts down, lips thin, eyes unhappy.

“He’s been in to see you every morning?” she says, mistrustful.

“Yeah,” Jimmy says. “Look—I’ve had time to talk to him, and I think he’s here for good this time, here to stay. It sounds like he and Cas are past whatever problems they had before.”

“You can’t know that,” Mom says, shaking her head. “Dean is—Dean is not good for him. You _know_ that. He’s gonna twist Cas up, get him all turned around.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Jimmy says. “He cares a lot about Cas, _and_ the club.”

“But—”

“Don’t you want Cas to be happy?” Jimmy cuts in. “You shouldn’t be forcing him to choose between you and Dean, not when he can have you both. Dean isn’t going anywhere anymore, so he’s not gonna take Cas away from you. So just—let it go. Let them be whatever they can be.”

Mom grinds her teeth together. “I thought we had the same opinion about Dean.”

“Well, that was before I talked to him,” Jimmy says. “I only want what’s best for Cas.”

“ _Dean_. You think _Dean Winchester_ is what’s best for Cas,” Mom says derisively.

“He is,” Jimmy says with a sigh. “And if you’d take a second and just _talk_ to him, without being all antagonistic and defensive, maybe you’d realize that, too.”

Mom is angry, probably because she lost a perceived ally, and Jimmy gets the feeling that his words aren’t getting through to her at all.

Sure enough, the next thing she says is, “What do you want for lunch? Amelia says she’ll stop by again to bring you dinner, but I’ll come back for lunch.”

Jimmy just sighs and resolves to pick the battle back up another day.

* * *

After leaving Jimmy’s room, Naomi goes to visit Mike—she got a call from Aggie saying that all hands were needed at the shop because a few repairs were due today that they’d been putting off, which meant Bacon had to leave Mike’s sickroom.

They’re in Reaper territory, and this is _St. David’s_ , of all places, but it’s still better to be safe than sorry. If anything happens to Mike on the club’s watch, Naomi doesn’t think she’d be able to forgive herself.

These are her boys, her family.

When she opens the door, the room within is quiet, but her eyes land on a familiar woman, seated in a chair at Mike’s bedside, and her entire body tenses up. If she’s back in town, that means Bartholomew can’t be far away—Naomi doubts he would’ve let her come back without coming back himself. And Bartholomew spells trouble—he’s a dirty cop with few loyalties, and maybe he’s been bought in the past, but he knows too many secrets about the club.

He’s _dangerous_.

Goddamn it, if the club voted to bring him back to Morada, Jules should have _said_ something to Naomi. All or nothing—that has always been their deal, and since Jules elected to tell her everything, he will have to explain why he kept this from her.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” Naomi demands as she steps into the room and shuts the door.

“What do _you_ think I’m doing here?” the woman responds without getting up.

“You _left_ ,” Naomi accuses. “You don’t get to just waltz back in here and pick up where you left off. Does Mike know you’re here?” She jerks her head toward the unconscious man in the sickbed as she finishes speaking, but her eyes never leave the bitch sitting in the chair, glaring right back at her.

“He hasn’t woken yet.”

“Then you oughta get your ass the hell out of this room before he does, or so help me—”

“You’ll what? You can’t lay a hand on me.”

“You wanna bet?” Naomi says, hands clenching into fists.

But before an actual fistfight can start, the door swings open, and Naomi spins around, expecting a prospect, only to find herself faced with Dean Winchester.

God, two of the people she least wants to see, in the same room, at the same time. What did she ever do to deserve this?

* * *

After getting out of surgery, Dean finishes up some paperwork before heading over to Mike’s sickroom to check on him, for Victor’s sake. As he gets close to the door, though, he thinks he hears raised voices inside, which—people should know better than to argue in sickrooms, where patients are supposed to be getting their rest.

Dean pushes the door open and is not at all surprised to see that Naomi is inside—of _course_ she’d be here, disrupting the peace. That’s what she does best, after all.

The other woman, the one Naomi seemed to be arguing with, Dean doesn’t recognize.

“Uh—only family members and people on the visitors list can be in this room,” he says to the stranger.

Naomi huffs an aggrieved sigh, turning away from Dean as she says, “She _is_ family.”

“I’m his wife. Do you really not remember me?”

Dean’s eyes go wide, because holy _shit_ , now that he knows where he’s seen her before, he _does_ remember her. “Anna?” he says. “You’re Anna Milton.”

She smiles thinly. “I guess we were only introduced once before you left the Reapers,” she says.

“Wow,” Dean says. “You—I haven’t seen you around town at all.”

“That’s because she left Mike,” Naomi says, and oh, Dean knows exactly how much Naomi must hate Anna’s guts—he’s experienced that anger firsthand, after all.

“But you’re still married…?” Dean asks.

“It’s a long story,” Anna says. Then she shakes her head and stands up, lifting her purse and hooking it on her shoulder. “I don’t have to waste time explaining myself to you.”

She comes toward the door, and Dean glances at Naomi before stepping aside to let her pass. Anna pulls the door open and shuts it again from outside the room. Naomi’s eyes land on Dean, and he turns away, goes to check on Mike’s vitals instead.

Everything seems to be fine, so he turns around and exits the room—he’s got no patience for Naomi.

Dean gets back into his office just in time for the desk phone to ring, so he grabs it and says, “Hello?”

“Dean,” Cas says. “You weren’t picking up the burner.”

“I’m at work. Not exactly supposed to have a cell phone on me,” Dean replies. Before Cas can say anything else, he asks, “Hey, did you even come home last night?”

“Yeah, but it was late, and I had to get up before dawn. Didn’t wanna wake you, so I just crashed on the couch,” Cas says.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Dean says, frowning.

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time, then.”

Smiling, Dean asks, “So what’re you calling me for?”

“I was wondering if you could take an hour or so to drive up to the cabin and check on Luce.”

“Aw c’mon, Cas, I’ve got better things to be doing on my lunch break than checking out some guy’s ass, especially when said ass isn’t yours.”

Cas laughs, and Dean’s smile widens at the sound. “How ‘bout this,” Cas says. “You check out Luce’s ass at lunch, and tonight my ass is all yours.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that, I hope you know,” Dean says, grinning.

“I’m counting on it,” Cas replies.

“Yeah all right, I’ll head up there at lunch,” Dean says. “I’m gonna need an address or directions or something, though.”

“Oh, we’ll have someone meet you at St. David’s to lead you up,” Cas says. “Thanks for this.”

“No problem.”

“See you tonight, Dean,” Cas says, a hint of promise in his words, and hangs up.

Dean is left staring at the phone, a stupid grin on his face. God, Cas is perfect.

Then there’s a knocking sound behind him, and Dean almost jumps a foot in the air. Setting the phone back down on its receiver, he turns and notices that he apparently left his door open, and Naomi took full advantage of it—she’s leaning on the doorjamb, watching him like a hawk watches its prey.

“Who was that?” she asks.

“Who do you think?” Dean responds, because it’s impossible for him _not_ to needle her.

“Don’t get smart with me, son,” Naomi snaps, glaring at him. “Was that Cas you were getting all flirty with?”

Dean doesn’t even hesitate before admitting to it—“Yeah.”

He expects a storm, expects Naomi to finally snap and come at him with her fists, but to his astonishment, she says, “Well, good. ‘Cause if I find out you’re playing games with Cas, stringin’ him along for kicks, I _will_ kill you.”

Dean has no clue what his face is doing, but he must look really dumbstruck, because the next thing Naomi says is—

“What were you expecting, for me to go all mama bear on your dumb ass for sleeping with my baby? I know you and him are—together. But you’d better not be getting any ideas about pulling him away from the club, or—”

“I’m not,” Dean cuts in quickly. “This club is part of him. It’s in his blood. I get that. I’m not—not trying to change him.”

“Good,” Naomi says severely. “S’long as it stays that way, you and I won’t have any problems.”

With that, she spins on her heel and disappears down the hall.

A little dazed, Dean walks around his desk to dig the burner out of the pocket of his jacket, because he thinks he might have just gotten Naomi’s _blessing_ , or the closest she can come to giving a blessing, and Cas needs to hear about it right the fuck now.

* * *

Sam ducks into the back of Crowley’s sedan and sees that Victor is sitting in the passenger seat up front, turned sideways to look at them. After getting shut down on all their leads for the murder of Judge Marvin Buckner, Crowley decided that he wanted to get together and regroup, so that’s why they’re here—he had summarily shut down Sam’s suggestion that they meet back at the café.

“Okay, we’re in your ‘safe car,’” Sam says. “What do you want?”

“Have you found anything in old case files?” Crowley asks.

“Nothing workable,” Sam says. “Not a single workable lead.”

“What about unworkable leads, then?” Crowley presses.

“Well… they’re unworkable,” Sam says hesitantly, brow furrowed. “Why would you want to know about them?”

Crowley shrugs. “You never know what could become useful later. Even if you don’t think a detail can be used in court, we could use it to put club members in line.”

“Really,” Victor chimes in. “Anything would help, at this point. We couldn’t find Luce, and we haven’t gotten any word on Limey either. Mike is in the hospital, but he was unconscious when I stopped by, and odds are he isn’t gonna tell us anything useful when he wakes up anyway.”

“Well, all the safe houses I know about were compromised years ago, I’m pretty sure,” Sam says. “I don’t know where they’d be hiding out nowadays.”

“Why don’t you ask Dean?” Crowley suggests.

“I talked to him just a couple days ago,” Sam says. “Dean told me he didn’t come back for the club—he’ll probably know even less than I do.”

“He got kidnapped because of them, Sam,” Victor says.

“That doesn’t mean he’s folded back into the club, okay?” Sam says, because he can’t—he can’t hear this. The club killed Dad, and Dean—Dean _can’t_ be going back to them.

“I happen to have it on good authority that Dean _is_ close to the club now, contrary to what he might have told you before,” Crowley says. “I have had eyes on a couple residences of key members of Reapers MC, and I know your brother stayed over at Cas Novak’s last night, and the night before.”

“Wait—what?” Victor says from up front.

“You should see what you can find out from your brother,” Crowley says, ignoring Victor. “If he’s sleeping with the VP, he’s bound to know something.”

“I’m not gonna—” Sam starts.

“If you don’t go, then I will,” Crowley interrupts.

“That would not be a good idea,” Victor says. “Dean is very loyal to his friends, and he grew up seeing the feds as the antagonists in all the stories he heard. He’s been away from the club, but those early impressions have gotta still be in there somewhere.”

“You’re friends with him,” Crowley says. “Maybe you ought to talk to him.”

“I could try, I guess,” Victor says.

“It’s okay. I’ll go,” Sam says. “Maybe I’ll be able to talk some sense into him, get him to put some distance between himself and the club.”

“Not yet, though,” Crowley says, frowning.

“What, you don’t want to lose a potential source? Crowley, this is my _brother_ we’re talking about, not just some potential witness for a case,” Sam says.

“No, Sam, he’s your brother _and_ a potential witness for a case,” Crowley says.

“No,” Sam says, putting his foot down. “We are not going to pressure Dean into testifying if he doesn’t want to, you got that?”

“Sam—”

Sam snatches those fucking sunglasses right off Crowley’s face to look him in the eye as he repeats, “You got that?” Crowley just blinks at him, clearly taken aback. “I swear to god, Crowley, if you don’t leave Dean out of this, I will walk right off this case and send someone else to take my place.”

“All right, fine,” Crowley says, gathering himself. He takes his sunglasses back, but instead of putting them on, he slots them into the breast pocket of his jacket.

“I’ll talk to Dean tonight when he’s off work, but that’s all,” Sam says.

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes.

* * *

“Hey, you’ve got some visitors up to see you.”

“Oh, you can tell ‘em to fuck off,” Luce says irritably.

“I think someone needs another dose of his pain meds,” Limey says, coming into the room.

“You can quit laughing at me already,” Luce says, annoyed.

“The day I get shot in the ass by a snot-nosed little kid, you can laugh all you want,” Limey replies, rummaging through the duffel bag where the good pills are.

“Hey, Luce,” a new voice says, and Luce looks over in time to see Dean coming into the room.

“Heya, Doc. Come to make sure my ass hasn’t rotted off yet?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, sure,” he replies. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I’m in a world o’ hurt.”

“Good,” Dean says.

“ _Good?_ ” Luce repeats, indignant. “I’m in pain, Doc!”

“At least you’re able to _feel_ pain. You got shot, Luce. If you weren’t feeling any pain, you’d have a bigger problem than a hole in your ass to worry about.”

The actual check-up goes pretty quickly—Dean pokes around a bit, asks whether or not it hurts, and Luce always gives the same answer, because it hurts fucking everywhere.

“You’re healing up nicely,” Dean says when he’s finished.

“Yeah, easy for you to say. You’re not the one with a literal pain in the ass,” Luce grumbles.

“You should be able to walk, whenever you feel ready for it. And you can sit, as long as you’re careful about it, but I figure it’d probably be best for you to stay right where you are,” Dean says.

“You think?” Luce scoffs.

“Limey, give him his damn pills,” Dean says.

Limey laughs and sits down to help Luce with his meds, and Luce wonders what he’s gotta do to get some sympathy from these assholes—he got shot on club business, after all.

“Your brother’s a sight better than you are, as a patient,” Dean comments as Luce drinks some water to wash down the pills.

Luce nearly chokes. “The hell do you mean by that?” he asks, looking up at them. Limey is glaring at Dean, which can really only mean one thing. “Is Mike in the hospital?” Luce demands.

“You haven’t told him,” Dean says, eyes on Limey.

“No, we haven’t,” Limey answers evenly.

“Tell me what? What happened to him?”

Clearly annoyed, Limey says, “There was another explosion in Lodi yesterday, and Mike might have gotten injured in the blast.”

“ _Might_ have?”

“He _did_ get injured,” Limey says.

“Jesus Christ,” Luce fumes. “You sons of bitches—when were you gonna tell me about this?” But then he thinks about the look Limey had given Dean, and he adds, “ _Were_ you gonna tell me about this?”

“Yes, of course!” Limey says. “Just—not right away.”

“Why the hell not?”

“‘Cause I figured you’d want revenge immediately. At the very least, you’d wanna go down and see him. And we can’t go anywhere, right now.”

“If it’s any consolation, I saw Mike just a few hours ago, and he’s doing well,” Dean says.

That _does_ make Luce feel a little better, but not by that much. “I’m not _stupid_ , Limey,” Luce says. “You don’t have to treat me like a fucking child. I know we’re supposed to be staying put. _And_ I’m in a lot of fucking pain. Did you seriously think I was gonna demand to—”

“Yes, I did,” Limey interrupts before Luce can finish his question. “Don’t be a dick. You know if we’d told you about it immediately, before he was stable, you would’ve wanted to go down and see him.”

Luce stares at Limey for a moment, and then he cops to it and says, “Yeah, okay, so I would’ve wanted to see him. But you guys could’ve said no! When shit happens that puts my brother in the hospital, I wanna damn well _know_ about it.”

Limey sighs. “Sorry,” he finally says. “Better now?”

“A little,” Luce says, and Limey rolls his eyes and gets up to leave the room. Dean lingers a moment after Limey is gone, and Luce takes the opportunity to ask, “So how are you and lover-boy doing?”

“God, Luce—”

“No, I’m serious. You kids okay?”

“We’re fine,” Dean says.

“Good,” Luce says, chuckling. “Don’t want the club to crash and burn ‘cause our VP is too sexually frustrated to make the right calls.”

“God, why do I even bother,” Dean groans, turning and walking out the door.

“Hey, don’t just leave me in here!” Luce calls out, but Dean pulls the door closed behind him, and Luce sighs. “Typical.”

* * *

Predictably, the Reapers choose a nondescript patch of dirt to hold their meeting. Darren wasn’t exactly born into a lavish family, and he doesn’t consider himself _pampered_ , but he must admit he has never liked meeting out near Morada. Inevitably, he has to be driven to some inconspicuous dirt turnoff that leaves a layer of dust on his car.

He supposes it is not his place to complain—at least, not this time.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he says as the Reapers dismount and come toward him. There are five of them today—Jules, Cas, Bobby, Gabe, and—someone Darren hasn’t met before.

“You said it was urgent,” Jules says, squinting a little at the midday sun.

It’s no mistake that Darren chose to stand with the sun at his back; he is at a disadvantage when it comes to dealing with Jules Morton, so if he can throw a little discomfort Jules’s way to even the scales some, he’ll do it.

“It is,” Darren says, gesturing at the van parked a short ways away from his sedan. “I need a safe place to store some supplies. I mentioned last time that we were seeing a bit of heat from the local authorities. They’ve got their suspect for the dead judge, but they’re still trying to pin it on us.”

“We actually need a favor from you, on that,” the VP says. “Our guy is taking the heat for you, so we need you to find us a scapegoat.”

“Easier said than done,” Darren says. “The cops have an eyewitness who identified the murderer. I can’t just pin it on someone else.”

“Then we have to discredit the witness,” Jules says.

“We think it was the kid,” Bobby says. “What do you know about the judge’s kid?”

Darren shakes his head. “I didn’t know he _had_ a kid.”

“Fat lot o’ good that does us,” Bobby grumbles.

“You’re local,” Cas says. “You got any idea where they might keep someone for witpro?”

“Maybe, but I can’t involve my guys in this,” Darren says. “If we go anywhere _near_ this case, the cops are gonna be all over us.”

“We can take care of the witness,” Jules says. “Just give us a location.”

“You sure you can deal with that?” Darren says. “Last time didn’t turn out so well.”

“You didn’t tell us there was gonna be a kid,” Cas says.

“I didn’t _know_ there was a kid!” Darren reiterates. Shaking his head, he says, “Look, I’ll get the address to you guys. Just don’t fuck it up this time. I can still call shots if I get thrown in jail, but to be frank, I’m gonna be a hell of a lot more interested in saving my own skin than protecting your one-eyed friend.”

“Understood,” Jules says. “Now, about storing your supplies—”

“I just need someplace quiet.”

“Morada isn’t exactly _quiet_ right now,” Jules says. “This is bad timing. We’re under plenty of heat ourselves from the feds.”

“I know you want to lay low,” Darren says. “I’m not planning to move my supply anytime soon. I just need a place for it to sit. Word is, you’ve got a warehouse. I only need you to hold on to twenty kilos.”

“ _Only?_ ” Cas says.

“It won’t take up much room,” Darren says. “And hey, don’t act like you’re so much more righteous than I am for storing illegal guns instead of illegal drugs.”

“Our MC doesn’t touch drugs,” Jules says.

“I don’t _want_ you to touch them,” Darren says. “I just need you to store them.” Licking his lips, he adds, “Y’know, I asked for Judge Buckner’s head, and your club didn’t deliver.”

“That was just a technicality,” Cas says.

“When I ask for things to be done a specific way, that is how I want them done,” Darren says nevertheless. “I was lenient with you, putting protection in place for Famine Harvelle. I can take those orders back any minute without going back on my word.”

“Are you threatening me?” Jules asks lowly.

“Only a little,” Darren says, holding his ground. Jules can sniff out insecurity, so Darren does his best to project an image of strength—he needs to hold the men together, needs to get through this transition in one piece.

“You’ll have to pay to rent the space,” Cas says, before Jules can say anything. “But the club will have to take a vote on it first.”

Darren doesn’t let himself hope, looking at Jules for confirmation because the club may give off the appearance of democracy, but Jules still holds the biggest stick, and Darren has no doubt the others fall in line with him.

But he nods in deference to his VP and says, “We’ll vote it tonight and get back to you with an answer.”

“I’ll have my guys wait in town, then,” Darren says—he’s certainly not taking twenty kilos of H back with him to the City.

“Fine,” Jules says. “But I don’t appreciate your threats, Chan.”

“Apologies,” Darren says with a smile. “We all do what we have to, to get what we need.”

Jules just nods before turning away, and Darren watches as his men go back to their bikes. Jules says something indistinct, and Bobby answers him. Then they get on their bikes and ride away, a cloud of dust in their wake.

Chris walks up to him and says, “We all ready to go, boss?”

“I’m gonna see my son first,” Darren says. “The van is staying here, though. Pick a motel parking lot—and you reserve the room for 阿丁 and 阿宝, all right? Their accents give ‘em away as soon as they open their goddamn mouths.”

“Got it,” Chris says.

* * *

The sun is just setting when someone approaches the apartment door that Ruby went through, and Meg sits up from where she’s been leaning back on her bike. Ruby has spent the day in a place where the front doors of all the units open onto a landing that’s out in the open, in perfect view of the small parking structure attached to the complex, where Meg has been waiting all goddamn day, because she’s been tasked with _babysitting_ , of all things.

Fucking Abaddon.

But when Meg looks closer, she realizes that she recognizes the man at the door—that is _definitely_ Sam Winchester, leaning in when the door opens and _kissing Ruby_.

Holy _crap_.

Everyone in the club knows that Ruby has a boyfriend, but she hasn’t ever brought him around before, and now—well, now Meg knows why.

Meg oughta bring this straight to Abaddon—she would be thrilled to have a way to manipulate someone in the DA’s office. But she’s annoyed with Abaddon. After the morning meeting, Abaddon didn’t tell her anything about her dad or her uncle—Meg had had to call the bar and get the news from Bela.

So Meg is feeling underappreciated and a whole lot less inclined to share this information than she ordinarily would be, and she finds herself trying to find a way to use this situation to her own advantage.

What this amounts to is leverage on Ruby, so what Meg needs to do is find a use for that sort of leverage. She can’t really think of anything she needs from her fellow Amazon though, and while she thinks about it, Sam goes into the apartment. The door stays open though, and not long after, he reemerges, alone. He walks along the hallway and down the stairs, heading toward his car, and Meg leans back again, tugging her hood down.

It’s a good thing Sam doesn’t have a good eye for bikes, or he would’ve recognized hers. Then again, he probably wasn’t paying attention—he pulls out of the parking area kinda quickly, and Meg wonders what his hurry is.

But Sam isn’t the priority right now, and Meg waits a minute or so before heading across to the stairs.

After knocking on the door, Meg stands in full view of the peephole, grinning and waiting for Ruby to open up. It takes a moment, but eventually the door swings inward.

“What the hell do you want, Meg? And how’d you even find me here?” Ruby asks.

“Followed you,” Meg says, still smiling. “This place looks a lot nicer than the hellhole you moved out of. Perks of having a lawyer boyfriend, huh?”

Ruby’s eyes narrow, and she asks again, “What do you want?”

“For now, I just want some questions answered,” Meg says.

“Did Abaddon send you?”

“Yes,” Meg replies. “But this doesn’t have to go straight to her, you know.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What I mean is, I don’t have to tell Abaddon that you’ve been sleeping with an ADA.”

Ruby folds her arms across her chest. “And what would you want in return?”

“Just what I said before—I want a couple questions answered.”

After a moment of hesitation, Ruby says, “Abaddon _likes_ the Reapers. She wouldn’t hurt Sam.”

“Sam hasn’t ever worn a Reaper,” Meg points out. “Besides, if you were only worried about him getting hurt, I doubt you would’ve gone out of your way to keep him secret for so long. I know he’s an ADA, and so does Abaddon. What you’re really worried about is her trying to use your relationship with him to our advantage. Knowing how stubborn Sam is, he would leave you before he ever let Abaddon control him.”

“Don’t pretend you know everything about my relationship with Sam,” Ruby says. “You’ve got no way of knowing whether he’d leave me if Abaddon started putting pressure on him.”

“Maybe I don’t, but you can’t say for sure either, and that’s what scares you,” Meg replies. “So if you want me to keep quiet about this, you’d better tell me what you’ve been up to all day. I know you’ve been at the police station, with a visitor’s badge and everything.”

Ruby sighs and says, “Oh, come in.” After Meg steps inside, Ruby pushes the door closed and says, “It’s stupid. Just—Sam got a hold of some old letters, ancient history kind of shit. His dad was writing to some broad in another charter. He thought that the club was gonna set him up to get killed, and then he died. Maybe it was coincidence, maybe it wasn’t, but Sam is convinced that the club did it. So he wants to find anything he can use against them, to put them away.”

“And he pulled _you_ in on this,” Meg says, trying to tell whether Ruby is bullshitting her or not.

“Yeah. We trust each other.”

“Have you seen the letters?”

“He hid them, but yeah, I found ‘em, read ‘em.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Do you think the club did it or not?” Meg asks.

Ruby shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Can you show me the letters?”

“I’d really rather not,” Ruby says. “Look, they’re pretty ambiguous. And they’ve got nothing usable on the club in them anyway, or else Sam would be going for arrests already. You can relax.”

“So what you’ve been doing all day is basically looking for evidence that can be used to take down the Reapers,” Meg says.

“Yeah,” Ruby says. “But it’s not like I was _actually_ gonna give it to him if I found something while he wasn’t around. It’s bad for us if the Reapers go to jail. I know that.”

“And what if Sam _was_ around when you found something? Or what if Sam found something on his own? Would you stop him?” Meg asks.

“No, but I’d warn you guys first, so Abaddon could decide whether or not to tip them off,” Ruby says.

Meg frowns. “You really expect me to believe that?”

“Believe it, or don’t. I don’t care. It’s the truth.”

“All right, fine,” Meg says.

“So you won’t tell Abaddon?”

“Nope. You and your boyfriend are safe—or as safe as two people can be while poking their noses into Reaper business.”

“Oh, you’re such a bitch.”

“It’s true,” Meg says. “You oughta be careful. Oh—and you should stop by and check in with the boss, ‘cause she’s getting suspicious.”

“Yeah. Suspicious enough to send you after me, apparently,” Ruby says, grabbing her jacket off the back of the couch. Meg follows her out the door of her—or Sam’s, rather—apartment, and Ruby asks, “You coming with?”

“Nah, I’ve gotta pick up some stuff first. Groceries,” Meg says.

“Oh, how domestic of you.”

“A girl’s gotta eat,” Meg responds.

She takes her time heading over to her bike, giving Ruby ample time to leave. And when she’s sure that her friend is gone, she takes out her phone to call Dad. Meg hadn’t been born yet when John Winchester was killed, but Dad must’ve been patched in already, new to the club. She figures he’ll probably know something about whether or not the club actually set John up.

At any rate, it’ll be good to give the Reapers a heads up that Sam is digging into their past.

* * *

After Dean gets off work, he heads straight for Cas’s house, not sure whether Cas is already gonna be there. He reminds himself that he’s not gonna pressure Cas—that he’s gonna tell Cas he was joking earlier today about holding him to his promise.

But to say that Dean hasn’t been daydreaming about it all goddamn day would be a bald faced lie.

God, the things he wants to do to that man.

When he gets to the house, though, he finds a familiar car parked out front—Sam’s car.

Shit, what’s he doing _here?_

As Dean pulls up onto the driveway and cuts the engine, Sam gets out of his car and walks over, expression unreadable. He disapproves. Of course he disapproves.

“Hey,” Dean says as he gets out of the car. “What’re you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” Sam says. “You weren’t picking up your phone, and the Impala wasn’t at the hospital.”

“Yeah, about that. I dropped my phone, and it broke. I’m borrowing one ‘til I can get a new one.”

“Borrowing one from Cas?” Sam says, and Dean just looks away, because Sam already knows the answer to that fucking question, and he’s asking it now to be spiteful. “Well anyway, I figured you’d be here.”

“Yeah? And how’d you figure that out?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam says. “I thought you said you weren’t here for the club.”

“I wasn’t,” Dean says. “It wasn’t the reason I came back, but Cas and I…”

“What, Dean?” Sam prompts when Dean’s voice trails off. “You and Cas what? I wanna know.”

“We’re making it work, and we’re happy. That’s what,” Dean says. “I don’t need any of your shit.”

“This isn’t about me, okay?” Sam says.

Dean shakes his head and starts toward the house. “Of course it’s not about you, Sam,” he says mockingly. “It’s all about me, because you only want what’s best for me.”

“That’s not all of it,” Sam persists, grabbing onto Dean’s arm to stop him.

“What do you really want, Sam? Why did you come looking for me?”

Sam sighs. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Luce and Limey or where they’re hiding out, would you?”

Dean stares at his little brother for a long moment, because Jesus Christ, it’s really come to this. “No, Sam, I don’t know anything,” Dean finally says.

“Oh, that is bullshit!” Sam accuses.

“Well even if I _did_ know something, I wouldn’t tell _you_.”

“Whose side are you even on?” Sam says. “I’m your _brother_. The Reapers, the MC, they disowned us. You’re not a member, and you’re never gonna be.”

“Look, I’m not a member, but I’m not a rat either, Sam. You oughta know that,” Dean says. “I don’t get why you’re so hell-bent on taking them down all of a sudden. We grew up here—we were raised inside the club. This club was our family, once.”

“They killed Dad,” Sam says, and Dean—stops.

“What?”

“Dad wasn’t killed by the Russians,” Sam says. “They were just a scapegoat. The club voted to kill Dad, lied to him about it, and then set him up to be executed, to settle a score with the Bloody ‘Nines.”

Dean starts laughing, incredulous. “That’s impossible,” he says. “They would never have voted to kill Dad. I mean, just think—the club needs a unanimous vote to execute a member. And Chuck and Aggie, and Bobby especially, would _never_ have voted for Dad to Meet the Reaper.”

“Even if it wasn’t voted in, it was because of the club,” Sam insists.

“Jesus Christ, Sam—”

“I have proof. If you come with me, I’ll show you.”

Dean wants to refuse, but shit, he has to go. He doesn’t believe that Sam would lie to him about something as serious as Dad’s death, but he also knows that Bobby at the very least would never— _never_.

“Fuck. Okay,” Dean says.

“You wanna take my car?”

“Nah, you’ll have to drop me off after,” Dean says. “I’ll follow you down.”

“Okay. C’mon,” Sam says, heading back toward his car.

Dean sighs heavily and turns back to the Impala.

* * *

Luce bursts out of the bedroom a couple hours after Dean’s visit, when the sun is going down. Limey looks up from his seat on the couch, startled, and Ghoul shoots to his feet instantly.

“What is it?” Ghoul says.

“I—we need to leave. Immediately,” Luce says. “There’s uh, a person that needs killing. _Now_.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Limey says, getting up and moving into Luce’s way when he starts limping toward the front door. “We’re not going anywhere, Luce. What happened?”

“I just got a phone call. Very important. We have to go now. _Right now_.”

“Luce—”

“It’s an _emergency!_ ” Luce barks, and there’s a wildness to his eyes that makes some part of Limey inclined to believe it.

“Shit,” Limey says, looking over at Ghoul, who only shrugs helplessly. He turns his eyes back on Luce and says, “We’re not just gonna go around killing people without at least consulting Jules first. Especially if it’s club business— _is_ it club business?”

“It’s to do with the club, all right,” Luce says. “This guy has gotta die, if we wanna protect the club. I can explain when we’re on the road, but we can’t waste time on it now. Come _on_.”

“Aw, fuck. Fine. Fine, c’mon,” Limey says, helping Luce limp toward the door. Ghoul hurries by to hold it open for them, and a minute later, they’re all in the car and Limey is taking the road toward town.

“Mind telling us what the fuck is going on, now?” Limey asks, glancing up at the rearview mirror. He can’t see Luce though, seeing as the guy is sprawled across the backseat, on account of the new hole in his ass.

“Go toward Stockton.”

“Yeah, got it,” Limey says. “Why are we doing this?”

“It’ll be better if you don’t know,” Luce says.

“Well you’re not killing anyone on your own steam,” Ghoul says. “You barely managed to hobble from the cabin to the car. We’re gonna have to know _something_ before you send us out to kill someone.”

Luce sighs. “It all happened when I was still pretty young, freshly voted in. Peg was barely two, and Meg hadn’t even been born yet. A lot of bad shit was going down back then,” he says. “Sorta like it is now, come to think of it.”

“What does that have to do with us killing someone in Stockton?” Limey asks.

“Well… let’s just say that someone is making some serious, unfounded accusations about the club, and we need to shut them down.”

Limey keeps his eyes on the road even as he starts counting back years. Peg and Meg are a little over two years apart, so if Peg was two and Meg was due to be born soon, then this must’ve been twenty-two years ago. Limey was thirteen then, still in middle school, and he honestly can’t remember much about things that were going on with the Reapers. All he can think of that happened twenty-two years ago is John Winchester’s death. Two years after that, Famine had gone to jail, and Bobby had taken Ellen and Jo into hiding.

Limey figures it’s more likely about John than Famine, so he says, “Does this have anything to do with John Winchester?”

There’s a long pause, but the answer eventually comes from the backseat—“Yeah.”

“What can anyone be saying about him? He died years ago,” Limey says.

“You were just a kid—you won’t know what I’m talking about,” Luce says. “Even I was only a new member at the time.”

“Then explain,” Limey says. When Luce hesitates, Limey tries reasoning with him. “I get that it’s a big deal, but you can’t seriously expect us to be on board with killing someone just because you say so. That’s not how things work around here.”

“Limey’s right,” Ghoul says.

“Okay,” Luce says at length. “We held a vote about whether or not John should Meet the Reaper.”

“Aw, crap. Why?” Limey asks.

“A deal went south between us and the ‘Nines. John pulled the trigger on a couple of their men and blew up one of their warehouses. It wasn’t a club call, for that to happen, but he did it to protect us,” Luce says. “The ‘Nines wanted him dead, of course, but we couldn’t let that happen, so we straightened things up with them another way.”

Limey frowns. “And John?”

“The Russians killed him not long after,” Luce says. “Kind of a horrible coincidence, but I’ll be the first to admit I was kinda relieved when the other shoe dropped, and John got whacked.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Limey says—that’s a fellow Reaper Luce is talking about!

“We’d all been walking around on our toes,” Luce says. “Someone finally taking him out gave us a target.”

“A target. Right. Our beef with the Russians landed Bill in jail,” Limey points out.

“I’m not saying it was a _good_ thing. Just that things were even worse before,” Luce replies.

They enter Stockton city limits then, and Ghoul says, stiffly, “Luce, you still haven’t told us who you want us to kill and why.”

“Yeah,” Limey agrees. “This happened over twenty years ago. Who’d be digging it up now?”

“Sam,” Luce says, and Limey almost slams on the brakes.

“Sam _Winchester?_ ” he says. Luce is silent, and Limey says, “Yeah, that’s not happening, ever.”

“He’s not our family,” Luce argues. “Given the chance, he’s gonna tear us the fuck apart. We need to stop him before he can get to us.”

“No,” Limey says. “Earlier, you said something about accusations. What has Sam been saying?”

“He’s got some letters, all right? Some paranoid letters from John to some bitch in another Reaper charter, saying all this crap about how the club was gonna kill him, so now Sam thinks that the club killed John, and—”

“And that’s why you want to _kill him?_ ” Limey says, disbelieving. “Luce, if Sam is wrong, you going out and killing him only makes it look like he was right. You do realize that, right?”

“If I kill him before the news can get back to the club, we can get through this without causing any doubt between brothers,” Luce says. “I trust the guys. Every guy at that table is my brother. We voted against executing John, and every one of us would’ve stood by that.”

“Then that’s what we’re gonna tell Sam. Because we’re gonna _talk_ to him, not _kill_ him.”

“Limey—”

“This kind of shit needs to be taken to the table,” Limey says. “We can’t go cowboy and kill people left and right.”

“Why the hell not? I’m already wanted for murder anyway,” Luce grumbles, and Limey barks out a startled laugh.

“The guys are gonna take care of that, Luce,” he says. “If they don’t pin it on someone else, they’ll scare off the witness who ID-ed you. It’s gonna be fine.” Luce is quiet, and it’s like Limey can _feel_ him sulking back there. “Okay, look—Luce, you trust everyone around that table. So do I. And they trust us. Us going out and killing someone behind their backs would be betraying that trust. Do you get that?”

Luce heaves a sigh. “Yeah, yeah, you’ve got a point, Mr. Righteous. But if we’re taking this to the table, we’re taking Sam with us.”

“Fine by me,” Limey says, and Ghoul shoots him a surprised look. Limey just shrugs and adds, “Alive and in chapel is better than dead. But hey, maybe we’ll convince Sam that he’s wrong while we’re in Stockton. That would save the club a hell of a lot of drama.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” Luce says.

“How’d you even hear about this anyway?” Limey asks.

“Meg called. She didn’t say how she found out, but does it really matter?”

“Well—it does matter if she was lying,” Limey says.

“She’s my daughter, kid. I know what she sounds like when she’s trying to pull one over on me, and this wasn’t it,” Luce says.

Limey knows better than to fight Luce on this, but Meg has conflicting allegiances. What if Abaddon is trying to distract the club with some internal troubles to—to what, leave the path open for them to expand into Lodi?

That doesn’t really make sense, though, because Abaddon’s not exactly an expansionist. Amazons MC is a lot like the Reapers in that regard—they like their territory and don’t feel inclined to go anywhere.

It’s pointless to keep theorizing before they’ve even spoken with Sam, though, so Limey just puts his attention on the road, trying to let his mind go blank. The car is quiet the rest of the way there, and at some point, Ghoul turns the radio on and finds a classic rock station.

A short while later, Limey parks in one of the guest spaces in the parking structure of Sam’s apartment building, and despite Limey and Ghoul’s requests for Luce to stay in the car, he shoves the door open and insists on going with them.

“If you get spotted and thrown into jail because of this, the guys are gonna murder us,” Limey says as they help Luce up the stairs to the second floor, where Sam’s apartment is.

Luce doesn’t answer, seemingly too focused on moving—or just in too much pain. They make it to the door without incident, and Limey raps on it once, twice, three times.

They have to wait almost a whole minute, during which Limey tries knocking again, and he’s about ready to suggest that they leave when the door swings inward.

“Uh. What are you doing here?” Sam asks, looking between his three visitors. His gaze lingers on Ghoul for a moment, a spark of recognition in his eyes, but then it passes over him and lands on Luce, and he adds, “Aren’t you supposed to be hiding out from the police?”

“Yeah. So let us in,” Luce says.

Sam hesitantly takes a step back, and Limey and Luce cross the threshold into the apartment. In the living room, Limey pauses, because—Dean. Dean is here. God, what a horrible coincidence.

“Hey,” Dean says, getting to his feet. He sets down a magazine, and Limey swears that he was holding it upside-down a second ago.

“What’s the matter with Luce?” Sam asks, shutting the front door behind Ghoul.

“Got shot,” Limey says.

And then he frowns. How are they supposed to be frank when Dean is here? Did Meg say anything about Dean? Surely if she did, Luce would’ve said something stupid about killing Dean, too. Then again, he _does_ know how much Dean means to Cas—Limey guesses that would’ve been enough to stay his tongue.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just pick up the phone and report that you’re here,” Sam says, eyes on Luce.

“We’re here about the letters,” Limey says, figuring that’s probably a good way to gauge what Dean knows—if he’s confused, then Sam hasn’t told him anything yet.

“What letters?” Sam says, but the careful way he says it gives him away.

“You don’t have to pretend. We already know about them,” Limey says. “Please, just—cooperate. It’ll make this a lot easier on all of us.”

Sam and Dean exchange glances, and then Dean says, “Oh, just tell ‘em.”

Looking back and forth between Limey and Luce, Sam says, “What do you wanna know?”

“We wanna know what you know,” Limey replies. “We heard you were under the impression that the club killed your dad, and we’re here to set things straight.”

“Oh, I’ve got it all straight. You can save your bullshit for someone who’ll believe it.”

“Give us the letters,” Luce says. “You don’t even know if they’re real or not. Someone’s probably just trying to stir shit up with the club, break us down from the inside.”

“They’re real,” Sam says. “I know my dad’s handwriting.”

“If they went to the trouble of writing the damn things, it wouldn’t have been much more trouble to learn to write like him,” Luce says.

“Who even gave them to you?” Limey asks, and Sam’s eyes flick to Ghoul once, just an instant, probably not even a conscious movement.

But Sam looked like he’d recognized Ghoul when they showed up on the doorstep not two minutes ago. The Nomads arrived in town last week, and the only time Limey can think of where their paths could possibly have crossed with Sam’s was Saturday, when they stopped by the Harvelle house after getting Dean and Claire back from the ‘Nines.

The Nomads hadn’t even gotten out of their car, if Limey remembers correctly, so Sam can’t have recognized him from there.

And Ghoul—Raph was asking questions about his relation to the Original Charter just yesterday.

By the time Limey has connected the dots, he has missed Sam’s answer, and Luce is saying, “Oh, that’s a fucking lie! No way a brother would’ve given you that kind of information on the club.”

“It was Ghoul, wasn’t it?” Limey says, taking a step to the side and turning a little so that he can see both Sam and Ghoul.

“What? No,” Ghoul says.

“Just yesterday, Raph asked me about you having some sort of history with the Original Charter,” Limey replies. Ghoul’s the right age too, when Limey pauses to do the math. “I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but now—Christ. The woman John was writing to—that was your mom, wasn’t it?”

Ghoul shakes his head. “No,” he says, but it comes out edged with nerves, unease, fear. _Liar_.

“Holy shit,” Luce says, clearly having come to the same conclusion as Limey.

“Are they saying what I think they’re saying?” Dean says to Sam, which—maybe that means he hasn’t seen the letters just yet. Maybe he was getting ready to read them and had to hide them quickly. That would certainly explain why Dean was holding a magazine upside-down when they came in—he probably just grabbed whatever was closest to him.

“I was gonna tell you,” Sam says, but his eyes are on Ghoul, who looks cornered, tense.

“Fine,” he blurts out. “I gave him the letters. They were addressed to my mom, and—before she died, she told me that they were from my dad.”

“No,” Dean says. “That’s not possible.”

“Why the hell not?” Ghoul says. “You don’t really think your dad was faithful to your mom even after she died, do you? It’s not like you don’t know how the guys are.”

Dean opens his mouth as though to argue, but he says nothing, shaking his head and turning away. It’s probably for the best. Limey knows all too well how lax the club can be when it comes to fidelity—at least, for guys who aren’t tied down with old ladies.

Limey was too young to really understand when Mary died, but looking back now, he’s sure John slept with plenty of other women after her death. It doesn’t _really_ surprise him that Dean wants to believe his dad stayed faithful to his mom even after she died, but Dean should know better.

“The club didn’t kill my dad outright,” Ghoul says. “But I’m pretty sure they had a hand in his death—they were the ones who set him up, so they might as well have pulled the trigger themselves.”

Limey stares at the Nomad for a moment, unsure how to respond to that. He trusts men who wear the Reaper, because unworthy candidates get weeded out long before getting patched in, but—fuck. This is a brother, turning his words against the club. Referring to the club as “they” instead of “we,” even though he’s a member.

 _Traitor_ is the word that floats to the forefront of his mind, but he holds it back, because they don’t have all the facts yet. Ghoul could have been deluded into thinking that that was the truth.

“Traitor,” Luce snarls, because he apparently doesn’t have the same brain-to-mouth filter that Limey does. Limey catches Luce before he can lunge at Ghoul, but Luce turns furious eyes on Limey and takes a swing at him instead.

“Jesus _Christ!_ ” Limey exclaims, ducking the blow and backing up a step, except—Luce isn’t sure on his feet, no doubt ‘cause of his injury, and he goes crashing to the floor once Limey lets go of him.

“You can’t call me a traitor,” Ghoul says. “I’ve only uncovered the truth. I haven’t betrayed anyone.”

Limey takes a knee and helps Luce back to his feet, wary.

“They’re _lies_ ,” Luce says, voice strained.

“We ought to all read the letters before taking this to the table,” Limey says.

“What—you’re taking this to church?” Sam says, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, of course,” Limey says. “What did you think we were gonna do?”

“Well, I thought you’d try to kill us, to cover up the club’s dirty secret,” Sam says.

“There’s no truth to it,” Limey says. “There’s nothing to cover up.”

Sam glares at him. “The letters are clear enough. Bobby told Dad that the club voted out the decision to kill him, and supposedly the ‘Nines were satisfied with whatever the Reapers did to settle their differences, but Dad still had reservations because Alpha Worthington wasn’t one to back down easy, _especially_ after losing men.

“So he said that if the ‘Nines were the ones to make a move on him, then they went back on their word, and the Reapers were telling him the truth. But if someone else came at him in the next few months, then those people were probably framed ‘cause the club sold him out to the ‘Nines behind his back. Lo and behold, not a whole week after the last letter he sent, he got gunned down, _supposedly_ by the Russians.”

“I don’t know, Sam,” Limey says. “That’s a lot of uncertainty.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Sam says. “It’s not like you haven’t seen the way the club operates. When this kind of crap happens, it’s never a coincidence.”

“Who even would’ve had the guts to do that, though?” Dean says. “Dad was SA. No member would dare make a deal behind the club’s back to kill the SA.”

“Not unless they were the President and VP,” Sam says.

“They wouldn’t have done that,” Limey says immediately, wincing a little when Luce’s grip tightens on his arm. “It’s easy for you to villainize them because you’ve been out for so long, but I _know_ they wouldn’t have done that.”

“How do you know it isn’t the other way around?” Sam argues. “You’ve been a member for so long that you’re _bound_ to be biased in their favor. Of course _you’d_ believe that the President and VP wouldn’t go behind the club’s back to kill a member. If members started to believe that they could be killed by the President without a club vote, then any sort of trust you guys had in each other would collapse.”

Limey sighs, takes a metaphorical step back. “Look, Sam, I’m just saying. You can’t know for sure based on a couple letters. You didn’t even _know_ John that well. Neither of us did. Hell—the only person in this room who actually knew your dad well enough to make a judgment call on his state of mind is Luce.”

“State of mind? You trying to say he was paranoid?” Sam says.

“Certainly sounds fucking paranoid, writing to some bitch about how the club might kill him,” Luce says angrily. “We were his _brothers_.”

“I’m not trying to accuse your dad of anything,” Limey says. “All I’m saying is that you can’t be sure.”

Sam shakes his head. “Seems pretty cut and dried to me.”

“Well, it isn’t,” Limey says. “You’ve got no proof that the ‘Nines were the ones who actually killed him. The only potential witness to the murder didn’t see anything.”

“He was _eleven years old_. You can’t put this on him,” Sam says.

“I’m not trying to!” Limey says defensively.

“You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not here,” Dean says. “And I didn’t see anything ‘cause Dad told me to hide. Scared the fucking shit out of me.”

“Holy—you were _there?_ ” Ghoul says, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, shoulders hunching up a little.

“I thought he was killed at the old warehouse. What the hell were you doing there?” Ghoul asks.

“That was just our thing when we were kids,” Limey says. “Dean and Cas and me, we were always where we weren’t s’posed to be.”

“None of this solves anything,” Dean says. Eyes on Limey, he goes on, “I always knew Dad died defending the club—died for the club. And I was okay with it, ‘cause I knew that was how he would’ve wanted to go out. But if it turns out the club turned on him— _killed_ him—I don’t—”

“You can’t _know_ ,” Limey says. “Come to church with us. We’ll get to the bottom of this.” Dean looks hesitant, so Limey adds, “If you don’t trust me or Luce, you’ve gotta trust Bobby at least. And Cas.”

“Yeah, all right. Fine,” Dean says.

Sam shoots a quick glare at Dean before turning his gaze on Limey, wary. “And we’re supposed to just believe that you won’t drive us someplace to kill us.”

“Sam,” Dean says, tone reprimanding.

“Take your own car,” Limey says. “If it looks like we’re gonna kill you, feel free to take off.”

“Just c’mon,” Luce says, already limping toward the door.

Ghoul steps back as he passes, and Limey says, “You’re still coming with us.”

The Nomad looks surprised but doesn’t argue, quietly following Limey out the door.

* * *

Cas looks up at the sound of a car pulling into the lot and—aw, fucking shit, that’s definitely the van they sent up to the cabin, and fucking _Limey_ is _behind the wheel_. Cas swings off his bike and starts toward the van, ready to be royally fucking pissed, but then the Impala drives up onto the lot, cutting him off, and another sedan drives in behind it. By the time both cars have passed by the van and parked, Limey and Ghoul have gotten out of the van, and Ghoul is helping Luce out of the back.

“Are you all fucking idiots?” Cas demands. “What did you bring him down here for?”

“Doc says I’m okay to walk, so—” Luce starts, probably leading up into some wise-ass comment.

“If the feds decide to swoop in now, you won’t be walking anywhere, Luce,” Cas cuts him off.

“Then you’d better get me the hell inside, VP,” Luce replies, starting toward the clubhouse. Ghoul walks with him, helping to support his weight.

Meanwhile, the door to the clubhouse opens, and Cas hears Bobby’s voice—“Aw, _hell_.”

“Is everyone inside?” Limey asks, taking a few steps toward Cas.

“Think so, yeah,” Cas says. “Sharpie’s out in Lodi, but other than that—”

“That’s fine. He’s Nomad,” Limey interrupts.

“What’s going on?” Cas asks, concerned. “Why do we need a full table?”

“Some—really bad shit, potentially,” Limey answers, vague and unhelpful, before heading toward the clubhouse.

Cas watches him go and almost follows, but he turns around first, because he’s gotta know what the hell Dean’s doing here. He sees Dean coming toward him from the Impala, Sam trailing behind him—that second car must’ve been his—and Cas smiles instinctively, because Dean coming toward him, Dean being _here_ with him, is something he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of, no matter the circumstances.

When Dean reaches him, Cas returns his kiss without really even thinking about it. “What’re you doing here?” he asks, and he doesn’t realize that his voice is pitched lower, more intimate, until the words come out of his mouth.

Dean only shrugs, something helpless about the motion, and Cas looks over at Sam for an answer, only to find Sam’s eyes kind of bugged out. And—

God-fucking- _dammit_. They’re right on the fucking _lot_.

Cas spins toward the clubhouse, but it doesn’t look like anyone saw—everyone’s backs are to them. But Jesus Christ, what was Cas _thinking_ , kissing Dean here of all places?

He turns back toward Sam then and says, “We gonna have a problem?”

“No. Not yet, at least,” Sam answers tightly before stalking past them.

Dean doesn’t look pleased when Cas looks at him, but at least he doesn’t look angry either. Well—Dean was the one who initiated the kiss in the first place, so even if he _is_ angry about Sam finding out, he can’t blame Cas for it.

As Cas and Dean approach the building, they see Bobby stopping Sam at the door, and Cas hears Bobby say, “What the hell are you boys _doing_ here?”

Cas expects one of them to answer, but Sam and Dean only exchange glances. Whatever’s going on, it doesn’t look good.

“The hell’s wrong with you two?” Bobby asks.

“We have some questions for the club,” Sam finally says. “I think we’d better take this inside.”

Bobby sends a questioning look Cas’s way, but hell if Cas knows what’s going on. So he just shrugs and inclines his head a little, indicating that Bobby should go on inside. Sam is the first one to follow Bobby in, and Cas grabs onto Dean’s elbow to stop him, hoping to get an answer from him—the door swings closed, and they’re left alone.

But before Cas can even ask, Dean shakes him off and says, “Let’s just go inside.”

Something feels off, and Cas doesn’t like it—there’s more distance between them here and now, in person, than there was when they were on the phone just a few hours ago. What happened?

Dean is reaching for the door handle, but Cas gets a hold of his shoulder and makes him turn back. “ _Hey_. Tell me what’s going on,” he says.

“You’ll know in just a second,” Dean responds, and before Cas can stop him again, he yanks the door open and steps inside. Cas lingers outside for just a moment longer, angry and uncomprehending, before following him in.

“C’mon,” Bobby is saying as Cas enters the room. “They’re all in the chapel.”

Cas walks past Bobby and into the chapel, moving around the table to take his seat at Jules’s left. Everyone’s in their usual seats—except Mike, whose chair is empty. A new chair has been pulled in for Alf, toward Aggie’s end of the table. Raph and Ghoul are seated away from the table, behind Gabe and Alf, as is the custom for visiting members.

Sam and Dean are left standing at the far end of the room, behind Aggie.

This, whatever it is, doesn’t look good.

Bobby sits down on Cas’s left, and Jules straightens in his seat, placing both hands on the table—church has officially begun.

“What are we here to discuss, Luce?” Jules asks.

“Sam Winchester’s been making accusations about the club,” Luce says.

“He works in the DA’s office,” Jules says, unimpressed. “His position on the club should’ve already been quite clear to you.”

“We learned some things, today,” Limey breaks in. “First off, Ghoul is the third son of John Winchester.”

Cas frowns, expecting Sam or Dean to speak up, but they don’t, which means it might _actually_ be true. It’s not unheard of for a member to have illegitimate children, but unbeknownst to the club? Unlikely.

“That’s impossible,” Bobby says. “If John had another son, he would’ve told me.”

“My mom said that he didn’t want to marry her when they found out she was pregnant with me, so she made him swear not to tell anyone that he was my father. And then she left,” Ghoul says.

“You’re Kate Milligan’s boy?” Aggie asks.

“How’d you know?” Ghoul asks.

“She was close to John, for a while,” Aggie replies. “I don’t remember when exactly she left, but I remember her.”

Bobby nods in agreement, though he still looks a little unsettled.

“So what is this, a family reunion?” Gabe says, clearly bored.

“My parents wrote letters back and forth, after my mom left,” Ghoul says. “Toward the end, John started talking about shit that was going down with the club, ‘cause he had reason to believe he was gonna die soon, and he was scared.”

“I don’t like where this is going, Ghoul,” Cas says.

At last, one of the Winchesters—Sam—speaks up. “Either you guys voted to kill your own SA and lied to him about it, or a couple of you went behind the club’s back. Whichever it is, the Reapers are responsible for killing him.”

Fuck. Fuck, it can’t be true.

“Careful there, boy,” Bobby growls. “Your father was my best friend. I’d sooner have voted for my own execution than for his.”

“Sam, you’ve been misled,” Aggie says, half-turning in his seat so that he can look at Sam. His words give Cas some reassurance—Bobby and Aggie definitely would've been there for the vote on John Winchester’s execution, and Cas trusts them. They wouldn’t lie about something like this.

“How do you know you’re not the one who’s been misled?” Sam replies, and though his words are directed toward Aggie, his eyes are on Jules.

“What the hell are you trying to imply, boy?” Bobby asks, tense.

“It’s obvious what he’s implying,” Luce says angrily. “He thinks one of us sold John out to the ‘Nines.”

“We’re not here to point fingers,” Dean says quickly, ostensibly to cut off the protests that are sure to come. Sam shoots a disapproving look at his brother, but Dean’s eyes aren’t on him, and he continues, “All we want is the truth.”

“And justice,” Sam adds.

“Sam, I know you don’t think very highly of us, but we are not in the business of selling out our brothers—we’re family. We protect our own,” Cas says.

“You weren’t even a member, Cas. You can’t say anything about this,” Sam says.

“It doesn’t matter that I wasn’t a member then,” Cas replies. “I’m VP now, and I can vouch for this club.”

“Enough,” Jules says, and Cas looks at him sharply, because he knows his stepfather, recognizes the subtle apprehension in his words—it’s the closest Jules ever comes to fear, which means it terrifies the shit out of Cas.

Looking around the room, it’s obvious the other members, except Alf and Ghoul, have caught on as well—it seems the room is twice as tense as it was before. Whatever Jules is about to say is not gonna be good.

* * *

The room goes dead silent at Julian’s single-word command, and though he thinks he knows what he needs to say, he finds it difficult to open his mouth. After all, it is one thing to decide on a course of action. It is another entirely to actually act on that decision.

There are some things that one does not— _cannot_ —think about in order to live with oneself, and for Julian, orchestrating the death of John Winchester is one of them.

So he takes an extra moment, braces himself, and finally opens that box.

“I love all of you,” he says to start off. “You’re my brothers. My family. I would not hesitate to kill for any one of you, and I will not hesitate to die now, if you wish it.”

“Jules—” Luce starts, no doubt to protest, but Julian holds up one hand to quiet him.

He looks Dean Winchester in the eye and says, “You wanted the truth, and—” he shifts his gaze to Sam “—you want justice. I can and will give you what you want.”

Dean looks apprehensive and Sam skeptical, but those are the reactions Julian had expected.

“For those of you who were not here, John went to a meeting with the ‘Nines in Chuck’s place. Tensions had already been high, and the meeting went bad. John got our guys out of there and blew the place up.”

“Luce and I were there that day,” Bobby says with a quick glance up the table, and Julian nods, giving him leave to elaborate. “We were in their territory—one of their warehouses. They had some pretty heavy explosives stored there, and we needed to get out quick. It was us or them, so John did what he had to do.”

“Landed himself in the hospital too, in the process,” Luce adds.

“Unfortunately, Alpha Worthington didn’t see that as enough punishment,” Julian picks up. “He was down five men, one of whom he considered a close friend, he’d lost a warehouse, _and_ a federal investigation landed on his head. He was livid, so we sat down with him. He said he understood that blowing up the warehouse was John’s decision and not a club call, and then he demanded that we turn John over to him. We took it to the table.”

“You _actually_ voted on whether he should Meet the Reaper?” Alf asks, eyes wide. “If he was only doing what he had to—”

“It was for good faith,” Julian explains. “We told Alpha Worthington we would take it to the table, so we did. We voted it down. Unanimously.”

“That doesn’t mean—” Sam starts, but Julian looks at him severely, making him pause.

“I knew that Alpha Worthington would never let it go, not unless we gave him what he wanted. At the meet, he’d said that if we gave John up, he would call it even—no retaliation,” Julian says. “If we held out, he would extend his vendetta to the club as a whole, and I couldn’t have that. Not after watching the way he swallowed up half the gangs in Oaktown.”

The room is dead silent now, and Julian closes his eyes for just a moment. He thinks about Charles, about Cas, about _Naomi_. And then he goes on.

“So after Chuck contacted him with the club’s decision, I reached out. I told him that I could give him John, but I couldn’t let the others think it was a club call,” Julian says, keeping his eyes on the table so that he doesn’t have to look at his brothers. “Killing a member requires a unanimous vote. I told him it wasn’t possible, ‘cause Bobby would never vote to kill John. Hell, no one would vote for the SA to die after what he did for the club, whether or not he was acting on a club decision.”

“So the money and the guns that we handed over to the ‘Nines to smooth things over—that was just a cover,” Bobby deduces, incredulous. He shakes his head. “And you—you were the one who sent John to the warehouse that evening to check on the guns. And the Russians—they were never even there.”

Julian shakes his head. “No, they weren’t,” he confirms.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Aggie says.

“No,” Luce says, quiet, uncomprehending, clearly in denial.

“Famine went to _jail_ because of our beef with the Russians,” Aggie continues.

“I know,” Julian says, voice heavy with guilt, guilt that’s been kept down for years.

“Fuck,” someone says—maybe Luce, maybe Limey. Julian’s ears have gone a little fuzzy. He focuses on the two men standing opposite him, behind Aggie. Sam’s eyes are alight with righteous fury. And Dean—Dean just looks disillusioned, sad.

Julian doesn’t know whether this will take away what good will he has left toward the club—toward Cas. Julian is not invested in his stepson’s romantic life, but Naomi cares very much, and that is reason enough for Julian to pay attention, at the very least.

He hopes that they’ll be able to weather this and come out on the other side, but there is nothing more he can do about it now.

For better or for worse, the truth is out, and despite the trouble it might bring, Julian is immensely relieved to finally have that weight off his chest.

* * *

Jules Morton says the club is going to take a vote, so Sam and Dean are asked to leave. Sam wants to protest, but he doesn’t think it’ll do any good. That was a huge bomb Jules just dropped, and the club members all looked pretty indecisive from where Sam was sitting. And if Jules is gonna stay in there for the vote, then of fucking _course_ they won’t get a unanimous vote. What kind of idiot would vote for his own execution?

“This is bullshit,” Sam says. “No way the club’s gonna vote to kill its own president.”

“What do you want, Sam?” Dean asks, moving toward the bar. He grabs a bottle of whiskey sitting on the countertop and goes behind the bar, presumably to look for a glass.

“I want Jules behind bars, where he belongs,” Sam says, sitting down at the bar. Dean straightens with two glasses in hand, but Sam waves him away when he tilts the bottle in question.

“Suit yourself,” Dean says with a shrug, pouring himself a glass. Back on topic, he says, “Do you really think anyone in a courtroom is going to give a damn whether Jules set Dad up or not? All they’re going to see if they look at this case is another member of a biker gang that got what he deserved—a bloody end. Our brand of justice may not be the justice we want, but it’s the best we’re gonna get, for Dad.”

Sam stares at his brother. “ _Our_ brand of justice? And you say you’re not part of this life. Jesus, Dean.”

“I didn’t—I’m not—” Dean splutters.

“You told me, more than once, that you didn’t come back here for the club,” Sam says. “But I saw you and Cas there on the lot. If you’re with him, you won’t be able to get away from the club. So what the hell are you doing?”

Sam is actually very interested to hear what Dean wants to say in his own defense, but right then, the chapel door opens, and Jules himself steps out. He looks as unruffled as ever, despite everything he just revealed, and Sam just wants to lunge at him, beat the crap out of him. How the fuck can he be so unaffected right after admitting to setting up the death of one of his so-called brothers?

He’s not _human_.

The president of Reapers MC strolls right past them and out the door, calm as ever.

Sam exhales, frustrated. “Dean, those guys in there—” he points at the chapel doors, “—they’re never gonna vote to kill their president. Whatever this is, it isn’t _justice_. Dad deserves more than this.”

“So you want Jules dead. Is that it? Or are you just gonna keep going until they’re all locked away?”

“They’re _criminals_ , Dean. I work in the DA’s office. It’s my _job_ to put them behind bars.”

“You’ll never be able to convict any of them for killing Dad.”

“No, but they’ve done plenty of other things,” Sam answers. He watches as Dean downs the whiskey in his glass and pours some more. “Just tell me now: whose side are you on?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I’m serious. These guys—they would all kill to save the club. You heard what Jules said in there, just before he got into it. They’d die and kill to save the club, so they wouldn’t hesitate to throw an outsider under the bus if it would save them.” Sam pauses here to lick his lips, and then he finishes, “Dean, if you stick around any longer, what happened to Dad could happen to you.”

“Cas would never let that happen to me. Bobby wouldn’t either.”

“Bobby didn’t have a clue when it happened to Dad, though,” Sam points out.

“I’m done talking about this. Just leave me alone,” Dean says.

He sounds so dejected. Fuck—Dean can’t be honest-to-god _in love_ with Cas, can he?

Sam shoves that thought to the back of his mind. Even if it’s true, he won’t let it stop him; he decided long ago that he wouldn’t let his own emotions get in the way of justice, and that means he can’t let his brother’s emotions get in the way, either.

“Dean,” Sam says, calmer. “Look, I don’t—I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I love them, too. Jimmy and Cas, and Limey, you weren’t the only one who grew up with them. I did, too. They’re like brothers to me. But this kind of betrayal—I can’t help but think it’s not an exception to the rule.”

“Sam, just—stop,” Dean says.

Sam grinds his teeth together. “I’m trying to take a step back, Dean,” he says. “I’d like to give them the benefit of the doubt, but the _club president_ did this, to a man he called a close friend.”

“Sam,” Dean interrupts, and he looks angry now. “Shut _up_.”

“Fine,” Sam says. “Fine, have it your way. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when they come after you.”

Dean only pours himself another drink, and Sam counts to ten before turning and stalking toward the exit. He thinks that maybe Dean will call his name or tell him to come back, but when Sam reaches the door, the room is still silent.

Sam steps out onto the lot, disappointment heavy in his gut.

The club knows that he knows. The guys have probably also inferred that he’ll stop at nothing to take them down. He’s potentially a target, now. And Jules is probably going to walk.

No—he’s _definitely_ going to walk. Luce is probably the most protective SA in the history of the club; he would never vote against his President. With him there, it doesn’t matter how anyone else votes, ‘cause it won’t be unanimous. And without a unanimous vote, there won’t be an execution.

Best justice Dad’s gonna get? Yeah, right. If justice won’t be given, Sam will take it.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Jules says as soon as the Winchester brothers—rather, Sam and Dean, as there _is_ a Winchester technically still here—leave the room.

“You had to make a tough call,” Luce says.

“Don’t,” Jules says before Luce can continue. He looks around the table and says, “I know that what I did went against everything that we stand for. I did not honor a decision that was made at this table, and I—killed a brother. Indirectly. I have given you all my reasoning, and I have no other defense. You have all the facts. If you need to, you can call Alpha Worthington to confirm—only he and I knew about it.”

Aggie almost laughs at that suggestion. They’re about to go to war with the ‘Nines—it’s highly unlikely that Alpha Worthington will answer any question that the Reapers ask of him.

Then Jules gets to his feet. “I’ll send the prospect to St. David’s with a burner so Mike can call in. Bring him up to speed—you’ll need a unanimous vote to send a member to Meet the Reaper.”

The room was quiet before, but it goes deathly still now, as though not one of them is even breathing anymore.

Jules moves toward the door, and just before pulling it open, he turns back, addresses everyone in the room again—“Whatever you decide, I won’t be angry.”

With that, he exits the chapel, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

Aggie looks around the table and takes in all the young faces. So many of them weren’t even old enough to prospect when John was murdered. Even Luce was still a new member at the time, following in his big brother’s footsteps. Limey and Cas had still been in grade school, and Gabe wasn’t even living in Morada. Raph had just started prospecting here—might not even have known what a Nomad _was_ , yet.

The only ones at the table who were here when it all went down are himself, Bobby, and Luce.

“Fuck,” Luce spits, tense. “VP, we’re not _actually_ voting on this.”

Cas leans back in his seat, jaw clenched tight. “Boss’s orders,” he says.

“Well—I, for one, won’t be voting for Pres to Meet the Reaper, so we can just spare each other the ceremony,” Luce says. “I won’t give you a unanimous vote.”

“ _Give us_ a unanimous vote? Give _us?_ ” Gabe repeats incredulously. “You say it as though we want him dead. Sam Winchester’s the only one who wants Jules dead.”

“He went behind the club’s back and set a member up to be killed,” Bobby says lowly. “Even if we vote out him Meeting the Reaper, does he really deserve our love and respect? Does he deserve to be sitting at the head of this table?”

“Who _ought_ to be sitting at the head of the table then, huh? _You?_ ” Luce says.

“Shut the fuck up,” Cas says tightly. “We’re gonna do this one thing at a time. We’re gonna wait for Mike to call in, bring him up to speed, and then vote this.” Before Luce can protest, Cas points a finger across the table at him and says, “ _Don’t_. And when that’s done, then we _might_ discuss leadership. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Limey says.

In the quiet that follows, Aggie sits back and digests Jules’s confession. It feels—off, somehow. Aggie has followed Jules for over two decades, and he can usually gauge whether Jules is being truthful. And while his words rang true today, it feels like he didn’t give them the full picture—like he held something back.

Aggie debates the merits of bringing this up now, but he can’t say whether it would make things better or worse—he doesn’t know what Jules might have left out, after all. Bobby probably would have noticed too, if he’d had a clearer head, but he has always been more emotional when it comes to John Winchester and his boys.

If Jules kept something to himself, it must have been for a good reason. Going against a club decision is a serious offense, but Jules had a—an acceptable reason for that. It won’t be the end of the world if Aggie gives him the benefit of the doubt one more time, at least until they have a chance to discuss it.

* * *

Michael wakes from a nap to the sneaking suspicion that someone is watching him. It’s probably nothing, though. He was interviewed by the Lodi PD earlier today, and the police tend to have that effect on people—making them paranoid as fuck, that is. But Bobby and Jules were right—the Lodi PD don’t consider him a suspect, and they’re clearly trying to put together a case against the Leviathans.

“You’re awake.”

Michael jolts a little in his sickbed, turning his head to the side, and—

That’s Anna. What is she doing here?

“I was starting to get worried,” she says, getting up from her seat and coming over to his bedside.

“You’re not—you can’t be—”

“I’m here,” Anna says, cutting through all of Michael’s half-formed denials.

Anna reaches down, hand landing on the back of Michael’s, and he’s elated for all of about five seconds before remembering. “Where’s Bartholomew?” he asks.

“He’s also in town,” Anna answers, pulling her hand back. She doesn’t look apologetic in the least, but then, she wouldn’t. It isn’t in her nature to apologize.

“Why?” Michael asks. “What the hell is he doing here? It’s not because you’re here, is it? Because if it is, I’d rather you were gone.”

There’s a flash of hurt in Anna’s eyes, there and gone, fast enough that Michael thinks he might have imagined it.

He _must_ have imagined it.

“Michael,” Anna says, sitting on the edge of the bed and touching his forehead with her fingertips.

Michael exhales slowly, a little shakily, closing his eyes and trying his best not to lean into the touch. Her palm cradles his cheek. God, he misses her so much.

“Why’d you come here?” Michael forces himself to ask, even though he really doesn’t want to know.

“Barty decided on his own to come to Morada. I heard that you were hurt when we arrived, and I had to see you,” Anna replies.

“Is Inias here?”

“He’s in town, yes. Barty pulled him out of school especially for this trip. Guess he doesn’t trust him to stay at home alone, yet. Would you like to see him?” Anna offers.

“You really think Bartholomew’s gonna allow that,” Michael says flatly.

“To hell with what he’s going to _allow_. He can’t stop you from seeing your own son.”

Michael knows he ought to hold his tongue, but he can’t resist volleying back with, “But he could stop you from being my wife.”

Anna opens her mouth to respond, but she’s cut off by a knock on the door. Before either of them can say anything, the door swings open, and Agent Crowley steps inside.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?” Michael asks.

“Just making some inquiries about the incident in Lodi yesterday afternoon,” Crowley replies. He looks over at Anna, eyes alight with interest. “And who are you?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Michael answers for her.

“Do you even have permission to be in here?” Anna asks.

“Do _you?_ ” Crowley returns, more curious than accusing.

“Anna, leave us,” Michael says. “It’s fine.”

Agent Crowley moves aside when Anna heads for the door, and Michael waits in silence for her to leave the room. It’s so difficult to think about anything to do with her, with Inias. Michael can’t say he hates her anymore, and he doesn’t hate Bartholomew either, but it still hurts. He doesn’t know whether it’ll ever _stop_ hurting.

“So. How are you feeling?” Crowley asks after the door closes.

Michael smiles. “Why don’t you skip the foreplay and just get to the point?”

“Well, you already know why I’m here,” Crowley says.

“I already told the police everything I know,” Michael says. “You could just get my statement from them.”

“I prefer to conduct my own interviews,” Crowley says.

“Ask your questions, then.”

Crowley looks a little bit surprised, as though he’d expected more resistance, but he doesn’t question it—at least not verbally. “Why were you in Lodi yesterday?” he asks.

The door swings open then, saving Michael from having to answer, and Crowley spins around, hand already going to his belt, no doubt to draw his weapon. It’s only Bacon, though, and the agent seems to relax when he notices that.

“I’m in the middle of an investigation,” Crowley says. “You can close the door on your way out.”

“This is important,” Bacon says. “Do you even have permission to come in here?”

“I don’t need permission,” Crowley says.

“Crowley,” Michael says, worried by the solemn look on Bacon’s face, “I’m obviously the victim here. You can’t seriously believe that I set off the bomb and blew _myself_ up. I get that you’re trying to take us down, but this isn’t how you’re gonna do it.”

“Oh, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t,” Michael says firmly. “Now please get out.”

Crowley hesitates for a little longer, but he must know that Michael is right, because he finally gives in and goes toward the door. “So,” he says, looking at Bacon when he’s about to pass him, “is the club falling apart yet? The more you unravel, the easier it’ll be for me to pick one off the herd. Just you wait.”

With that, he exits the room, and Bacon immediately shuts the door. Then he walks over to Michael’s bedside, taking a phone out of his pocket as he approaches.

“Everyone’s at the table, waiting for you. Call Cas,” Bacon says.

“Why am I not calling Jules?” Michael asks, frowning.

Bacon just puts the phone in his hand and turns to go back outside. “I’ll keep watch outside.”

“All right,” Michael says, watching the prospect as he leaves the room. When the door has swung closed again, Michael dials Cas’s number and apprehensively lifts the phone to his ear.

* * *

It’s not surprising at all when the guys vote down killing Jules. Even Bobby votes no. Despite being sure of the outcome, Cas still feels immensely relieved after each No he hears, going around the table.

Cas gives everyone orders to go home and sleep on this, and tomorrow they can consider whether they’re really going to vote on removing Jules from the head of the table. He instructs Limey to take Luce straight back to the cabin and to _stay_ there, and asks Aggie to go with them, to make sure of it—they can call in, if they’re needed for a vote.

The guys all start getting up to leave, and Bobby volunteers to take their decision to Jules, though it’ll hardly be a surprise to him. Cas allows it and just stays in his seat, waiting for the room to empty. Ghoul remains seated too, though, and when the others have gone, Cas turns toward him.

“Did you want something?”

“I was sort of expecting some form of punishment,” Ghoul says, hesitant.

“That’s understandable,” Cas says. When Ghoul doesn’t respond, Cas says, “I’m guessing you want to know why I didn’t bring that up.”

“Yeah.”

Cas takes a moment, thinks about the best way to put it. “What you did with those letters, that took a lot of courage. It would’ve been easier—safer—to just bury them, and these secrets. It would’ve been better for the club if they’d never come to light. But that doesn’t mean you ought to be punished for bringing the truth to the table.”

“It doesn’t?” Ghoul says skeptically. “I’m pretty sure anyone who hurts the club needs to—”

“You’re our brother, Adam,” Cas says, intentionally using Ghoul’s first name because he needs him to know, needs him to understand that his membership in the club doesn’t rely on maintaining a persona, a separate identity with a different name. “I can swear to you, you’re more a brother to us than you are to Sam and Dean—just ‘cause they’re blood doesn’t mean they’re family.”

“Even so,” Ghoul says. “A member, bringing evidence against the President of the Mother Charter—how can there be no repercussions for that?”

“You’re one of us,” Cas says. “You gotta be loyal to Jules, sure, but you’ve gotta be loyal to the rest of us, too. Good or bad, we would never punish you for coming to us with the truth. We need to trust each other. Punishing someone for telling the truth would only make the rest of us more inclined to lie.”

Ghoul nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re right. I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

Cas gets to his feet then. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get going.”

Ghoul goes around the table and meets Cas by the door, but before Cas can grab the door handle, Ghoul stops him with, “Cas, um. They aren’t—you don’t think the others are gonna treat me different after this, do you?”

“I can’t say,” Cas answers. “But even if they’re weird around you for a little while, they’ll come around.”

“Hope so,” Ghoul says.

It looks like he isn’t gonna say anything else, so Cas goes ahead and pulls open the door. He steps out first and comes to an abrupt halt a few feet from the door, because the guys are all gone, but Dean is still here, standing behind the bar.

Cas hesitates a second before going over to Dean, only faintly aware of Ghoul’s footsteps heading toward the hallway that leads to the back rooms.

Cas had wanted to talk to Dean anyway, but he’d sorta expected Dean to have left by now. To be honest, he’d almost hoped that they could talk about this over the phone. As much as he likes seeing Dean’s face, it’s hard to look him in the eye after the truth that they both just learned.

“Hey,” Cas says, taking a seat at the bar, across from Dean.

“I take it Jules isn’t gonna be executed,” Dean says.

“No,” Cas confirms. He pauses, then says, “You don’t actually want him to die for this though, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Dean answers, but he doesn’t meet Cas’s eyes.

“You think he deserves to die,” Cas says quietly.

“I don’t know,” Dean repeats. “Don’t ask me.”

“I swear I didn’t know about this.”

“I know.”

Dean says nothing else, and Cas exhales slowly, suddenly exhausted.

“Are we done, then? Is this it?” he asks.

“No,” Dean says immediately, but it takes longer for him to find the words to follow up. “I just—need some time to think about all this.”

Cas nods. “That’s understandable.” They’re quiet for a while, and then Cas says, “You can still stay at my place, if you don’t wanna go back to the house. I’ll crash at the clubhouse tonight.”

Dean finally meets Cas’s eyes, and fuck, he looks so conflicted—there’s anger and fear there, but there’s gratitude too, and Cas wishes he could help Dean untwist this mess of feelings, help him through this.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says at length.

“Yeah, no problem,” Cas responds.

A gulf has formed between them, and Cas feels like his insides have been hollowed out.  He doesn’t know how to close this gap, how to pull Dean close again.

Then Dean is moving toward the door, and all Cas wants is to follow him, to go home with him.

But he lets Dean leave in peace, ‘cause that’s the least he can do for him, right now.

* * *

Claire fidgets with the straps on her backpack, impatient for Mommy to finish leaving her message for Grandma—Claire has gotten tired of staying with Grandma and Grandpa, and she’s convinced Mommy to stay the night at Uncle Cas’s house instead.

Whenever she stays at Uncle Cas’s house, she gets his old bedroom, which is awesome because it has a whole toy box full of model bikes and cars. Claire is extra careful when she plays with them because they all used to be Uncle Cas’s toys, so she doesn’t want to break them.

“All right,” Mommy says with a sigh, stuffing her phone into her pocket and picking up a bag. “C’mon, out to the car.”

Claire smiles widely as she follows Mommy to the car, parked outside. She obediently climbs into her car seat and holds still while Mommy buckles her in.

“If Cas isn’t home, we’re coming right back here, all right? No buts.”

“Fine,” Claire says, and Mommy shuts the door to go sit up front.

Ten minutes later, they park at the curb in front of Uncle Cas’s house.

Uncle Cas’s bike isn’t there, but that’s Dean’s car in the driveway—Claire was picked up from ballet lessons in that big, shiny, black car. The bad guys had come and taken them right after, but Claire still has a good impression of the car.

“Claire, I don’t think we should go in,” Mommy says, frowning.

“No, that’s Dean’s car,” Claire says, fiddling with the buckle on her car seat. She’s seen Mommy and Daddy clasp it for her enough times that she can do it on her own now.

“Claire!” Mommy reprimands when she figures out what Claire is doing, but Claire has already snatched her backpack off the seat next to hers, pushed the car door open, and started taking off across the sidewalk and up the driveway.

She’s only just reached the front door and pushed the doorbell once when Mommy catches up, grabbing onto her backpack first and then getting a hold of her hand.

“What on earth do you think you’re _doing?_ ” Mommy says angrily, starting to drag Claire away. Claire tries to resist, digging in her heels, but Mommy’s bigger than she is, and there’s only so much that Claire can do.

Before they can get far, though, the door opens.

“Dean!” Claire says, and Mommy is forced to stop, because she’s polite like that. Uncle Cas always says Mommy and Daddy are the politest people in the Novak family.

“Claire,” Dean says, sounding surprised.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Mommy says. “We were just wondering—is Cas here?”

“No,” Dean answers. “He’s back at the clubhouse.”

“Why isn’t Uncle Cas home?” Claire asks.

“The club is uh, sorting through some shit,” Dean says. His eyes widen a little, and it takes Claire a minute to realize he probably didn’t mean to curse in front of her. But Claire has heard far worse, so she just smiles up at him.

“What are you doing at Cas’s house, anyway?” Mommy asks.

“Uh—”

“Dean is Uncle Cas’s boyfriend,” Claire supplies helpfully, but Mommy’s grip on her arm gets tighter. Dean smiles, but even from this distance, he looks strained. Frowning, Claire asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Dean replies. There’s a brief pause, and then Dean asks, “So did you… want me to tell Cas that you were looking for him?”

“No, it’s fine. We should be going home,” Mommy says.

“I wanna stay here,” Claire insists. She manages to pull free from Mommy and runs over to Dean. “I wanna see Uncle Cas when he gets home.”

“I don’t think your Uncle Cas is gonna be back before your bedtime,” Dean says.

Claire pouts up at him. “Please?”

“Claire,” Mommy says sharply, coming over to the door and grabbing her wrist. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“No, it’s okay,” Dean says. “If Claire wants to stay over, I’m fine with it.”

“Dean—”

“To be honest, I could use a little company,” Dean says.

Claire wants to plead with Mommy some more, but she holds her tongue, waiting for Mommy to make up her mind ‘cause it looks like she’s thinking about it, now.

“All right. Let me just get our stuff out of the car,” she says. “Thank you, Dean.”

“No problem,” Dean says. “C’mon in, Claire.”

Claire follows Dean into the house, and he heads straight over to the TV room, where he drops onto the couch. There’s a movie playing, one that Claire hasn’t seen before. But she’s uninterested in what’s on screen—what _does_ interest her is how easily Dean relaxes when he’s here, so comfortable in Uncle Cas’s space. The slightly pinched look on his face has smoothed out a lot, but when Claire looks carefully, she thinks she can still see it there, something sad about his eyes.

She drops her backpack on the floor next to the couch and crawls up onto it, perching by Dean’s left elbow. “Dean, are you sad?” she asks.

“What? No,” Dean replies immediately, frowning down at her.

“Is it because Uncle Cas isn’t here?”

“I’m fine,” Dean says.

It feels like a lie.

“If you’re worried I’ll tell Uncle Cas that you’re sad, I won’t,” Claire says. “Cross my heart,” she adds solemnly. Dean laughs, and she says, “I’m serious!”

“It’s just some adult stuff,” Dean says. “You don’t have to worry about it. Cas and I are fine.”

“But—”

“Cas already knows why I’m—sad,” Dean says. “It’s not his fault, so quit asking about it. You wanna watch a movie before bed?”

Claire hesitates, trying to decide whether she wants to keep pushing or not.

“If you don’t suggest a movie, I’m putting in _Aladdin_ , ‘cause that one’s my favorite.”

“ _Mulan_! Mulan is way cooler than Aladdin,” Claire says instinctively. “She’s badass.”

Dean huffs and gets to his feet. “Cas tell you that?”

“No,” Claire says, scowling up at Dean. “I decided that on my own. ‘Cause it’s true.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Dean says. “She _is_ pretty badass.”

“I wanna be like her when I grow up,” Claire says. “Except I won’t have to pretend to be a boy, ‘cause I can just become an Amazon, like Meg did.”

“Don’t let your mom hear you saying that,” Dean says, picking a DVD off the shelf by the TV and going over to stick it in the DVD player.

“Mommy knows,” Claire says. “She thinks I’ll change my mind when I grow up, but I won’t. She’ll see.”

The front door closes, and Mommy comes into the room a moment later.

“I’m about to put _Mulan_ on. Wanna join us?” Dean asks.

“As though I haven’t seen that one enough times,” Mommy says with a groan, but she sits down on the couch anyway, and Claire leans into her.

When Dean gets back up to come to the couch, he pauses for just a second, something soft and fond in his expression, and Claire wonders if he wants kids. If he and Uncle Cas get married, then they won’t be able to have kids of their own.

Then again, there are lots of kids in orphanages. Dean and Uncle Cas could adopt an orphan, and then maybe Claire could be a big sister to her—or him—the way Uncle Limey is with Uncle Cas.

The prospect makes her smile and curl up closer to Mommy.

Dean sits down on her other side and kicks his feet up on the coffee table, just the way Uncle Cas does whenever they watch movies together.

They’re gonna be okay, Claire thinks. Dean looks sad, but he’s _here_ , isn’t he? He has his own house, so if he were really fighting with Uncle Cas, then he’d be at his own house.

Yeah, they’re gonna be fine.

Reassured, Claire settles in to enjoy the movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Meet the Reaper" refers to "meeting Mr. Mayhem" on the show.  
> "SA" is short for "Sergeant-at-Arms". The position is like an enforcer, but the SA is also responsible for protecting the president and VP.
> 
> Also, the two sets of Chinese words are just names (nicknames really). They're underlined bc I put in some hovertext for them.


	12. Sympathy for the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean comes to a realization about his relationship with Cas. Sam and Ruby begin to splinter. The conflict between Dean and Naomi finally comes to a head. While taking down the remaining Campbell house in Lodi, the 'Nines take a Reaper and a Campbell hostage. Aiming to use them as leverage, the 'Nines and Leviathans set up a meet with the Reapers and Campbells that inevitably ends bloody for all parties. Bartholomew makes his presence known and unceremoniously pulls the rug out from under Crowley's feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait! The past year has honestly been insane. I actually ended up pumping this chapter out in the past week, because I suddenly realized that it was already December, and I realized that if I wanted to post this year, then it HAD to be today. Also, this makes it an exact year since Ch. 11 went up, so today's my third year anniversary on AO3. My, oh my.
> 
> (Okay, I'll come clean. It's after midnight because I've been working long hours and then coming home and not sleeping much and I ended up knocking out at like 10pm and not waking up 'til after midnight, so it's technically 12:45am on the 12th, but I'm backdating to the 11th. Bite me.)

When Cas gets home, he sees Amelia’s van parked at the curb. The Impala is still in the driveway, though, so that means Amelia—and Claire?—might have stayed here with Dean last night.

That, or someone has taken Amelia and Claire, and this is a warning.

Fervently hoping that it’s the former, Cas gets off his bike, sets his helmet down on the handlebars, and moves toward the front door, drawing his gun as he gets nearer.

He unlocks the door slowly, wincing at the _click_ as the lock slides free. The door swings open on silent hinges, and Cas slips into the house, eyes darting around warily.

No sign of a struggle.

Nothing appears to be out of place, except for two blankets on the couch. Maybe they watched a movie together last night.

Much more at ease, Cas goes down the hallway to the guest room and peeks inside. The lump under the covers is too big to be Claire, so Amelia must’ve settled down in here.

Crossing the hall, Cas cracks open the door to his old room, the one that he and Jimmy shared growing up, and finds Claire sprawled across his old bed, one leg partly hanging off, blanket kicked onto the floor. Cas shakes his head and steps fully into the room, lifting the blanket up and shaking it out before gently covering Claire with it. She shifts but doesn’t stir, and Cas manages to get back out of the room without waking her.

Last stop: the master bedroom.

Cas knows he’s gonna find Dean in here, yet the sight of Dean all tangled up in the sheets still makes him pause, almost overwhelmed with relief, because Dean is here.

Dean is _here_. Dean _stayed_.

The moment passes, and Cas moves over to his dresser to grab a change of clothes. As he pushes the last drawer shut, clean clothes in hand, he considers taking a shower. But it’d probably be best not to—the last time Cas hopped into the shower while Dean was in bed, he woke him up.

So Cas sets the clean clothes on top of the dresser and tugs off his shirt, figuring he’ll just change into something fresh and rinse his face off or something. But he hasn’t even gotten fully into the clean shirt yet when he hears a soft sound of protest coming from behind him, and when he turns around, he sees that Dean’s eyes are open, surprisingly alert.

“I was enjoying the view,” Dean says, voice a little raspy with sleep.

Chuckling, Cas tugs the clean shirt back off and walks toward the bed. “I was just thinking that I shouldn’t take a shower, ‘cause it’d wake you up. Guess you were already awake.”

“I was half-asleep,” Dean says. “I thought I heard the door opening, but I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming.”

When he reaches the edge of the bed, Cas has to stop himself from reaching out and messing with Dean’s bedhead. It’s endearing, but after the shit that came out last night, Cas really isn’t where they stand. Whether he’s allowed.

Probably sensing Cas’s hesitation, Dean pushes himself upright, grabbing Cas’s arm to pull him closer. He turns to face Cas and swings his legs over the side of the bed, tilting his head up to meet Cas’s eyes easier.

Cas starts to lean down, but he catches himself again. “This okay?”

Dean just reaches up and pulls him the rest of the way in, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to his lips. A soft sound escapes Cas’s throat before he can stop it, and he pushes in closer, because morning breath or not, this is already so much more than he’d hoped for. Dean’s fingers card through his hair, tugging gently, and Cas gets Dean’s lip between his teeth, worries it maybe a little roughly, a tease and a challenge.

Dean’s hands find the backs of Cas’s knees and pull, and Cas goes, straddling Dean’s lap. It’s a position he’s never found himself in before, yet it feels right, inevitable.

Cas breaks the kiss to catch his breath, and Dean grabs two handfuls of his ass, hauls him closer. He presses his lips to the side of Cas’s neck, and Cas tilts his head back, making a breathy sound as Dean bites down, sucks.

“Fuck,” Cas exhales.

He pushes a hand through Dean’s bedhead, confident now, and tugs his head back for another kiss.

Dean returns it for a moment, but then he pulls away, and panic begins to rise in Cas’s chest—does Dean regret it? Has he changed his mind? But he follows Dean’s line of sight and twists, only to see Claire standing just in the doorway, in her pajamas, looking so very smug.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Cas huffs, hurrying to shift back, but Dean keeps him close, one hand on the small of his back and the other gripping his forearm, and okay, maybe he’s got a point. Cas is still hard, can feel the stiff line of Dean’s cock against the inside of his thigh.

This may be incriminating, but Claire _really_ doesn’t need to see any more of them in this state.

“Claire, what did I tell you about knocking before coming into my room?” Cas says, but it’s hard to make it sound like a reprimand when he’s still breathless.

“I saw your bike outside. I was excited to see you,” she says defensively.

“Dean and I were kind of in the middle of something,” Cas says.

Claire lingers in the doorway a little longer before saying, “I _knew_ I was right about you guys.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a genius, kiddo. Now scram,” Cas says. He adds, quickly, “And close the door.”

Claire smiles, looking extremely pleased with herself, and backs out of the room, tugging the door closed behind her.

“I take it the mood’s ruined,” Cas says. He’s gone soft himself, and Dean’s caught his breath, too.

“I’ve gotta shower and get to work,” Dean says.

“Right,” Cas says, looking down to hide his disappointment.

But Dean cups his cheek, tilts his head back up a little to catch his eye, and says, “Cas, this—fuck. This isn’t just—” He takes a deep breath, exhales, and finally says, “I love you.”

Cas feels his jaw go a little slack, but he’s helpless to stop it, has no clue how to answer that. Whether to even _believe_ it.

Dean goes on, “I have no idea where that leaves us, what with your stepdad, and my dad, and—and Sam, and—and it _terrifies_ me, but I… love you.”

And yeah, Cas still has no idea how he’s supposed to take that. But uncertainty starts creeping in over Dean’s features, and it makes Cas’s chest ache. “I didn’t—I don’t—I can’t—” Cas tries, stumbling over the words, except Dean’s eyes are sad, disappointed, and that’s not okay.

Cas kisses him, quick, once, twice, one more time, and presses their foreheads together, keeping his eyes closed so he won’t have to look at Dean.

“Fuck,” he says. “Dean, fuck, you can’t just spring that on me like that. Did you—are you serious?”

“I meant it.”

“But… god, Dean, it doesn’t—none of this makes sense,” Cas says, trying to think. “You can’t turn your back on Sam, or your dad, and I’m not leaving the club. So—”

“What the fuck is this, then?” Dean demands. “Why are you even letting me stay here? Heck, why’d you even fucking care that Alastair was in town?”

This raises Cas’s hackles, because by now, Dean oughta fucking _know_. So he just says, “You know why.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Well I’m not letting you off the hook just like that,” Dean says stubbornly. “I’m out on a limb here, Cas. You gonna join me or not?” When Cas doesn’t answer, he starts, “If you want this to end—”

“I don’t,” Cas interrupts immediately, because behind all the excuses, despite all the rationalizations, he knows that he doesn’t want this, whatever this is, to end.

“Then where do we go from here?” Dean asks.

“I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know,” Cas admits. He presses another kiss to Dean’s lips, relieved that Dean isn’t pushing him away, and scoots in closer, resting his forehead against Dean’s again. “I just know that I—I don’t wanna lose you again. Just—”

He pauses for a deep breath and pulls back to look at Dean, fingers ghosting over the soft hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck. Cas touches his jaw, brushes a thumb over his cheek, wishes they had all the time in the world so that he could count the freckles dusted across his nose and cheekbones.

Dean is _here_ , and Cas can’t let him slip through his fingers again.

“—don’t leave me,” he finishes. “Please.”

Dean is quiet for a troublingly long moment, eyes unreadable, but then his lips twitch, tugging upward at the corners, and he says, “Close enough.”

The words don’t make sense for a second, because why on earth is Dean _smiling_ about this shit situation they’re in? But then—

 _Jesus_ , the fucker was _baiting him_ for this whole goddamn conversation.

Cas shoves at his chest, but Dean’s arms wrap around him, solid and strong, and okay, maybe Cas isn’t struggling all that hard. “Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit,” he has to say. “I hate you.”

“Love you too, Cas,” Dean says, smug, and Cas can’t even keep up a scowl because Dean’s smile is fucking infectious.

So he does the only logical thing and grabs Dean’s face to kiss the smile right off his stupid fucking lips.

Of course, when Cas pulls back, Dean is still smiling, but it’s softer now, and Cas wishes he could always look like this.

“Sorry, Cas,” Dean says. “I spent a lot of time thinking last night, and I came to a decision. I’m not gonna punish you for something you had nothing to do with. You’re not Jules.”

That sobers Cas up real quick, and he says, “No, but I’m still a member. And—”

“Cas, stop. Just listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Look, we… It took us a long time to find each other again, and I can’t let fucking _history_ get between us. I’ve never felt this way about anybody before, and I don’t think there’ll ever be anybody else, so this, this is it,” Dean says, and god, Cas can still hardly believe it. “So what if your stepdad indirectly killed my old man? Dad chose that life, and he knew it wasn’t gonna end well, and that’s why he wanted me and Sam to get the hell out. He wanted us to be happy. He’d probably be pissed off if he found out that I gave up my best chance at happiness because the life he chose got him killed.”

It all sounds so logical, yet Cas can’t quite bring himself to believe it. “What about Sam?” he asks.

“I don’t know. All I know is, I’m not going anywhere.”

“But I’m staying in the club, and Sam’s hell-bent on taking us down. None of that is just gonna go away,” Cas says.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Just believe me when I say that I’m never gonna leave you again,” Dean says, eyes intent and so very sincere.

Cas exhales, a little shaky. God, he wants to believe him so much.

“You’re gonna have to give me some time to wrap my head around all this,” he finally says.

“Take all the time you need,” Dean says, sounding confident. “I’ll be here.”

* * *

The house doesn’t stand out, except that it’s set back a little farther from the street than its neighbors. There’s a little American flag waving out front, set above the garage, and pink and purple flowers line the walk from the driveway to the front door. Even the lawn is freshly mowed, edges trimmed neatly. It fits in perfectly with the tidily manicured lawns to its right and left.

Gordon almost picks up his phone to double-check the address.

But Leviathans MC couldn’t get this address wrong. They lost a member trying to blow this place up yesterday, so it must’ve been guarded by at least one Campbell and one Reaper. There’re no bikes or cars in sight right now, but he’ll bet anything they’re hidden away in the garage.

“What’s the move, boss?” Connor asks from the driver’s seat.

“You and Dale will circle around back. When you’re in place, Cody and I’ll take the front, push them out the back to you,” Gordon says. “I doubt they’ll have more than four guys on this place. We want to take as many of them alive as we can, but if that doesn’t pan out, better them dead than you.”

Cody and Dale are two of the younger ones in Gordon’s crew, newer, but they’re smart; they pick things up quick. He figures this’ll be a good test run for them, seeing as they haven’t seen too many life-or-death situations just yet. And Connor will be a good guiding hand.

“Go on,” Gordon says. “I’ll give you a minute to get into place.”

Connor cuts the engine and gets out of the car, herding Dale toward the side of the house. Gordon watches them go, unconcerned.

“Do you think we’re gonna have to kill anyone today?” Cody asks.

“No way of knowing ‘til we’re in there,” Gordon says with a shrug. Then he looks over his shoulder and says, “Why? You worried?”

“No,” Cody says without hesitation. “I ain’t scared, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good,” Gordon says.

Honestly, he’d been a little surprised when Alpha pulled him aside and told him to choose a few of his favorites and join them on the ride to Lodi. But now that he’s had more time to think it over, it makes sense. Boris inspires just enough fear in Gordon’s crew to hold down the fort back at home, and Gordon _has_ always been the best recruiter, the best trainer. Makes sense that Alpha would want him here to expand their ranks, lay down roots.

Maybe a minute later, Gordon gets out of the car and shuts the door behind him, leading the way up the driveway toward the front door. Cody follows a few steps back, and Gordon motions for him to stand on the opposite side of the door when they reach it. Gordon gets ready to kick the door in and meets Cody’s eyes, waiting for his nod to make sure he’s ready.

The door cracks and gives, and Cody races into the house first, firing the first warning shot toward the roof. Gordon rushes in to cover him, but there’s no one in sight.

The sound of footsteps sails toward them from farther within, and they move in that direction, guns at the ready. At the sound of more gunshots, they break into a run and find the back door hanging open, two men standing in the backyard, hands up, unarmed.

Connor and Dale stand several yards away, guns trained on them, and Gordon grins, victorious.

“Fuck,” one of them, the one without a cut, is saying. “Fuck, Jesus, fuck, don’t shoot.”

Gordon tucks his gun away and walks around to see their faces. He doesn’t recognize the man in the cut, but the Nomad patch on his left breast explains why he’s an unfamiliar face. The other guy must be a Campbell, but Gordon has never known much about that family anyway.

“We’re not here to kill you,” Gordon says. “C’mon, up. We’re going for a ride.”

He leads the way back through the house, confident that neither of his guests will be pulling anything stupid, outnumbered and outgunned as they are.

Inside the house, Gordon sends Cody to find some rope while he sets the explosives. After the Campbell and Reaper are tied up and shoved into the back of the van, the ‘Nines climb in, and Gordon says, “All right, blow the fuses.”

“Yes, sir,” Connor says, and presses the detonator.

* * *

Luther is coming down from the living quarters above the little antique shop when the doors to the shop swing open with a jingle to admit the leaders of Leviathans MC—Dick Roman’s face he knows, and he recognizes a few other faces from their last meet, but they never really went through introductions.

“Good morning,” Alpha says. He’s taken an antique rocking chair toward the back of the shop, out of sight of the street. The place has been pretty quiet since they set up shop, not many customers. Luther figures that’s why it was so easy to convince the owners to sell—not much business to begin with.

“Morning,” Dick says. “We hear the operation went smoothly this morning.”

“You heard correctly,” Alpha says, getting to his feet. “Let’s talk downstairs.”

Luther moves out of the way to let Alpha lead the way to the basement. One of the Lafittes is next, followed by Dick and the three followers he brought along. The other twin follows, and Luther enters the stairwell after. Gordon brings up the rear, instructing one of his new recruits to stay upstairs and man the shop.

It’s strange to think that Luther was just like those kids a few years back, following Gordon’s orders and hoping so hard to become one of the crew, to earn his way in.

He’s part of the gang now, has earned Alpha’s trust, but to be honest, Gordon still kinda scares him.

“We captured Christian Campbell and one of the Reapers from their Nomad Charter,” Alpha reports when they’re all downstairs.

“They were left at the house to guard it,” Gordon adds. “Didn’t put up much of a fight.”

“Where are they?” Dick asks.

“Upstairs,” Alpha replies. “With these hostages, taking Lodi from the Campbells is essentially done.”

“The Reapers will be open to negotiation, too,” Dick says. “It doesn’t matter that he’s just a Nomad. These men all call each other brothers. One is pretty much as good as another, when it comes to hostages.”

“I am aware,” Alpha says.

“Then it’s time we reached out and let them know their situation,” Dick says.

“It is,” Alpha agrees. “I’ll let you set the meet.”

Dick starts toward the stairs leading back up to the ground floor, and Luther steps out of the way, but then Dick turns around. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you…” he begins.

“You would like to see them first,” Alpha says. “It’s completely reasonable. Gordon, take them up to see our guests.”

“Follow me,” Gordon says, leading the way upstairs.

Alpha nods to one of the twins, who heads up behind the Leviathans.

“What’re you thinking?” Luther asks after they’re gone. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just kill ‘em?”

The remaining Lafitte twin rolls his eyes, and Luther’s fairly certain this is Benny. He’s always been more apt to lose his patience with Luther.

“What would make this easier is if you’d grow a brain,” probably-Benny says.

“Would it kill you to be less condescending?” Luther says. Probably-Benny responds with a shrug.

“I have no qualms about spilling blood, but the less blood, the better,” Alpha says. “At the very least, it’ll attract less attention from the authorities.”

“Morada is their mother charter, though. The Reapers will never leave without spilling blood,” Luther says, frowning. “A bloodbath is inevitable.”

Luther catches probably-Benny shifting from the corner of his eye, and he’s surprised when he realizes that he knows that expression—Benny and Eli have the exact same face, so they obviously have the same poker face. Do they—or at least, does this one have sympathy toward the Reapers?

He’s weighing the pros and cons of calling him out when Alpha says, thoughtful, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Luther bites back the accusation, figuring that it wouldn’t do to call probably-Benny out when he’s not even sure. He’s got no proof, and Alpha trusts the twins over Luther, obviously. Making an unfounded accusation like that could even turn Alpha against Luther.

Better to wait and observe.

* * *

Despite having been told to lie low just the day before, David gets a call from Edgar telling him to meet up with Dick, Joe, and Georgie in front of the antique shop that they set up for the ‘Nines. There, he gets a brief look at the ‘Nines’ setup—they’ve set up their meeting room in the basement, and the upstairs rooms have been furnished—and learns that they captured two hostages earlier this morning.

After the meet, David parts ways with the Leviathans and heads home, saying that he has to make a trip to the vet for his dog. It’s actually true, since he caught his idiot dog eating fucking _rocks_. What the fuck, really.

But it’s just as well, because there’s no one in the waiting room at the vet. After sending Bentley in, he pulls out his phone and gives Morris a call.

“Anything new?” Morris says when he picks up.

“Yeah. Our new visitors from Oakland have made themselves comfortable.”

“Were they behind the explosion this morning?” Morris asks.

“Word spreads quick, huh?” David says. “Yeah, that was them. We just met with them, and we’re all getting ready to meet with the Reapers.”

“Face to face? Why on earth would they want to do that _now?_ ” Morris asks.

“They’ve got leverage,” David answers. He figures he doesn’t need to elaborate that they’ve captured members. Morris is smart; he can probably infer that much.

“Shit,” Morris says, and David echoes the sentiment.

A meeting between these gangs right now, with the stakes as high as they are, is gonna end bloody; there’s no way around it.

“I’ll text you the time and place when I know,” David says.

“All right,” Morris says. “I’ve just got one last thing to take care of, and then I’ll head up.”

“You’ll—” David starts, cutting himself off. “What, you mean you’re in town?”

“I’m in Morada.”

That’s a surprise, seeing as Morris isn’t a field agent, hasn’t been since he was promoted a couple years back. David has read his file.

“Don’t worry about why I’m here,” Morris says. “Just send me the information when you’ve got it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, understood,” David says, and Morris hangs up.

Jesus Christ. What is Morris doing here, now? David can’t help the instinctive suspicion that there isn’t a simple explanation for his handler’s sudden presence. This can’t possibly end well.

* * *

“So are you just never gonna talk to me again? Is that how it is?” Ruby finally asks after a morning of the silent treatment.

Sam hasn’t said a word to her since he came back last night, hasn’t even explained why he was so pissed off. But Ruby suspects that she knows what this is about: those goddamn letters.

Sure enough, Sam says, “You were the only other person who knew about those letters. You promised you wouldn’t tell, but you must have. Who was it?”

Ruby sighs. “Meg found out about us—about me and you. I didn’t want her to tell Abaddon,” she says. “I figured it was just some ancient history. What harm could it do?”

“What harm could it do?” Sam repeats, incredulous. “Meg told _Luce_ about them. You know, the Reaper who also happens to be _her father?_ The club knows I know what they did to my dad. For all I know, they could be voting whether to paint a target on my back right now, since they know I won’t just let them off the hook.”

“But—the Reapers like you,” Ruby protests.

“I was never a member. The most they’d feel toward me is some nostalgia because I’m John Winchester’s kid, but seeing as they killed him in the first place, I doubt any of that nostalgia is enough to stay their hands. Especially if they see me as a threat.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen to you,” Ruby says.

“Right. _You’ll_ protect me from an outlaw biker club,” Sam scoffs. “What are the Amazons, really, hmm?”

“We’re just a recreational MC, I swear,” Ruby says, like she’s said a thousand times before. “Sometimes we do protection runs as a favor because a bunch of big motorcycles can scare away people who might wanna hold up a truck of valuables, but that’s all.”

“And if I went and pulled up records on you guys, you’d all be clean?” Sam says skeptically.

“It’s not like Abaddon runs background checks,” Ruby says. “Hell, I’ve done time for using illegal drugs, but I did my time, I got out, and I’m clean now, and that’s what matters.”

Sam sighs explosively. “Yeah. Right.”

“Look, either you believe me, or you don’t,” Ruby says. “But either way, you’ve gotta make up your mind. I’m sick of doing this.” Looking at the clock hanging up on the wall, she says, “I have to go.”

Sam’s eyebrows bunch together, and he asks, “Where? Why?”

“I’m grabbing breakfast with my mom,” she answers, snatching her jacket off the back of a chair and shrugging it on. Glancing over at Sam, she asks, “Will I see you later?”

“I’ve got no plans for today,” he says, but he doesn’t meet her eyes, and Ruby’s just—tired.

Fuck it all. It doesn’t matter whether he’s lying. Whether he’s out and about or stuck at home, Sam needs time to stew over this, and Ruby just needs to be away from him for a while.

“See you tonight, then,” Ruby says, and heads out the door.

* * *

Naomi pulls up next to Cas’s bike in the driveway, relieved to have confirmation that he’s home. She’d tried calling first, but he hadn’t answered his phone, and when she’d gone to the clubhouse, no one had seen him, even though he’d apparently spent the night there.

He might have come home to shower. Maybe to catch up on sleep.

Or maybe he just had to get out of the clubhouse for a while. A horrible truth landed on him yesterday, and it kills Naomi that she wasn’t there for him when he heard it. The Winchesters had been so very close to their family. John had been half a father to her children, the same way Charles had been half a father to Sam and Dean.

Why can’t this shit ever just stay buried?

Naomi lets herself into the house and heads for the master bedroom. The door’s closed, and when she raps on it, she hears footsteps within, coming nearer.

“Cas? It’s me,” she says.

“Hey, Mom,” he says when he opens the door. He doesn’t really look at her, though, and Naomi figures he’s angry with her.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Forget about it,” Cas says. “It wasn’t your call.”

“I’m sorry for keeping it from you,” Naomi says. “Cas, you have to understand. Back then, there were some really hard choices to make. We didn’t have as strong of a foundation in this town or as strong of allies then as we have now.”

“I don’t want to hear about it,” Cas says.

But Naomi has to finish, so she goes on, “If this weren’t taken care of, the ‘Nines would have torn us apart. You can’t blame your father. He was only doing what he had to do to protect the club.”

Cas’s eyes shoot up then, sharp. “ _Step_ father,” he says, and oh.

“Yes, of course,” Naomi says, but it’s too late.

“Fuck,” Cas says. “Did Dad—”

“No,” Naomi denies, but Cas already has the suspicion, and there’ll be no stopping him now.

“Fuck, Mom, don’t lie to me,” Cas says, angry.

Naomi doesn’t have the words to answer him, can’t bring herself to lie, not when those furious blue eyes capture hers, so she only shakes her head, avoids his gaze.

“I can’t _believe_ this,” Cas says, stalking past her.

Naomi stands still where she is, heart heavy. Cas will go find Jules at the clubhouse, and when questioned directly about this, she doubts Jules will lie, especially now that most of the truth is out. There’s already been so much damage done; this extra bit of truth can’t make things _that_ much worse, except that—there’s still Dean to think about.

God, what will come of this re-blossoming relationship between Dean and Cas? Maybe Dean could forgive Cas for his stepfather’s involvement, but what if he learns that Charles was involved, too?

Naomi has only just decided to accept Dean. It’s become pretty damn obvious that Cas wants him to stick around, anyhow, and Jimmy…

Well, what he’d said had made sense. Naomi shouldn’t force Cas to choose between her and Dean, not when he can have both. The only problem now is, what if he _can’t_ have both? Or worse, what if he could have had both, if not for this old truth rising to the surface? Naomi doesn’t know what she’ll do if Cas has to go through losing Dean again. It nearly broke him the first time around.

If Cas finds out the rest of the truth, then Dean will hear it. And if he’s going to hear about it either way… better for someone who has all the details to tell him.

Decision made, Naomi steels herself and heads for the car. At least Cas has to confirm his story first. That means Naomi will definitely beat him to St. David’s.

* * *

As soon as he hangs up the phone on Dick Roman, Samuel dials Crowley’s number.

Everything’s gone to shit, and it’s become clear that this is the end of his family’s stint as outlaws. Two of his grandnephews have been put on their backs, and Christian has been captured, could definitely die today. Fucking hell.

“Hello,” Crowley says when he picks up.

“There’s been a development in Lodi,” Samuel says.

“I heard about the explosion,” Crowley says.

“My grandnephew was taken hostage by the Leviathans and the ‘Nines,” Samuel says. “They’ve got a Reaper too, and we’re all going to meet. Supposedly, they want to resolve this amicably, but it’s not gonna go down that way. I just know it.”

“I don’t disagree,” Crowley says. “I take it you’d like the law to show up before people start shooting.”

“I would greatly appreciate that,” Samuel says. “Especially if you could wait until my family’s clear before moving in.”

Crowley hums. “I can’t guarantee the timing will be ideal, given the unpredictable nature of these gang meetings, but you’ll get a police presence. I’ll make it happen.”

Samuel supposes that’s as much as he can ask for. “Thanks,” he says.

* * *

Crowley walks into the Morada police station and immediately heads for Deputy Henriksen’s office, since he figures Turner will be less inclined to listen when he tells him that it’s time to send officers up into Lodi. He would call Lodi PD, except that he can’t have the police showing up before the meet even starts; that would be counterproductive. And his fellow ATF agents—well, his usual contact hasn’t answered his phone any of the three times Crowley tried on his way to the station.

But when Crowley enters the deputy’s office, he finds a stranger seated at the desk, tapping his fingers on the surface. At Crowley’s entrance, the man gets to his feet, revealing a neat suit and tie. He extends a hand and says, “Agent Crowley, I presume.”

“Yes,” Crowley replies, shaking his hand. “Who are you?”

“Special Agent Morris, FBI.”

Aw, hell. This is not good. “Were you looking for me?”

“Yes,” Morris says. “I’m here to inform you that your operation has been terminated.”

“That’s not possible,” Crowley protests. “This is an important investigation—it involved the murder of Judge Buckner.”

“Homicide is the FBI’s domain, not the ATF’s. I’ll be handling that investigation personally,” Morris says. “You can return to your field office. I already spoke with your handler; you can call and confirm, if you don’t believe me.”

Crowley stares at the FBI agent, trying to hide his disbelief. What the actual _fuck_.

“You can’t do this,” he says.

Morris smiles smugly. “But I already did it.”

Crowley wants to deck him, but being charged with assaulting a federal agent is the last thing he needs right now. Fuck his _life_.

“You have a good day,” Morris says before strutting out of the room.

The _nerve_ of the man.

After the door has fallen shut, Crowley punches the table, furious.

Better not to call his supervisor just yet—if what Morris told him proves to be true, Crowley will get direct orders to get out of Morada. Without receiving those direct orders, he can extend this investigation for a little longer. Maybe it’ll be just long enough for him to get enough information to convince his boss to change his mind.

God, this Special Agent Morris really could have been telling the truth. The operation getting pulled would explain why Crowley’s contact for requesting manpower isn’t taking his calls.

Victor steps into the room then, looking a little confused. “Who was that?” he asks.

“A prick,” Crowley answers impatiently.

“Well. Tell me how you really feel,” the deputy says, smiling a little.

“Forget about him,” Crowley says. “I received intel on a meet happening in Lodi, between the ‘Nines, Leviathans, Reapers, and Campbells. I’m calling Sam in.”

“Shit,” Victor says. “We should leave him out of this. He’s just a civilian.”

“He was old enough to be trained in hand-to-hand combat by the Reapers,” Crowley says, getting out his phone to call Sam. “And right now, I need as many warm bodies as I can get.”

“Let me guess: that guy out there just pulled the plug on your operation,” Victor guesses.

It infuriates Crowley that Henriksen guessed right, but he won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing him ruffled. _More_ ruffled. “We’re still on the same side,” Crowley says. “You want the Reapers gone, don’t you? This is how we get them gone.”

Victor only nods. Sam picks up then, and Crowley tells him where to meet them.

* * *

Rufus walks into the station after his patrol to find his entire department suiting up.

They freeze when they notice his presence, and he asks, “What’s going on?”

Victor appears from somewhere in the back and says, “We’re going into Lodi to follow up on a lead.”

“That’s new,” Rufus says, eyes narrowed as he heads for his office. He gestures for Victor to follow him in, and after the door is closed, he says, “I don’t seem to recall the Lodi PD turning jurisdiction of their town over to us.”

“There’s gonna be a meet in Lodi today. ‘Nines, Leviathans, Reapers, and Campbells,” Victor says. “Shit is going down, and we need to be there to contain it.”

Rufus shakes his head. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.”

“Us suiting up and heading out there is not the solution,” Rufus says. “The Reapers are the only ones who can stop the war in Lodi from spilling over into Morada—they’re the only ones who want that. If you help Crowley take them down, our town will be the worst sufferer. Leviathans MC has been hungering to come into Morada for years, and they have no quarrel with drug dealers. The Campbell family could move back to selling crank here. Or worse, the Demons could move up from Stockton, strike a deal with an MC that isn’t opposed to drugs.”

“That’s what law enforcement is for,” Victor argues, and Rufus thinks he could slap this boy for his blind optimism. “After we take out the Reapers, we’ll eliminate the Leviathans.”

“If that were truly doable, don’t you think it would’ve been done already? If it were possible, how did these street gangs and motorcycle clubs stay intact even after all the challenges from law enforcement over the years?” Rufus challenges. “When one gang falls, another takes its place. When an MC falls, a new group of bikers comes riding in, like filling a niche.”

“So what, you just give up? Better the devil you know?”

“Yes,” Rufus says, and hates himself a little for saying it.

“Well, I don’t see what you see,” Victor says. “The world would be better without any devils at all in it.”

“Sure. _Ideally_ ,” Rufus corrects him. “I’ve already seen that that’s impossible.”

“That’s the difference between you and me,” Victor says. “You lack vision.”

“It’s not that I lack vision,” Rufus tells him. “I used to be right where you are now, with righteous ideals, lofty aspirations. But I lacked experience, and I lacked perspective. I’ve got those things now, and I know that the road you’re on, son? It leads straight to pain and destruction, for you, and for this town we care about so much.”

Victor glares at him, but Rufus meets his eyes head-on, unflinching, because he is only speaking the truth. Painful as it is, the boy needs to hear it, needs to get it through his head that squashing the Reapers is _not_ the solution. Not right now, at least.

“You’re wrong,” Victor finally says, with just as much conviction as before, and Rufus sighs heavily. “You’re wrong, and I’ll prove it.”

With that, his deputy storms out the door, and Rufus, well. He tried his best, but he should have known mere words wouldn’t be enough to stop his headstrong deputy. He can only hope that Victor will come to his senses before the whole town goes up in flames.

* * *

Aggie’s grateful for the distraction when the phone rings, but after getting the update from Bobby, he thinks he preferred it when he was in the dark. The rest of the club is in the middle of a shitstorm, and he’s stuck up here playing babysitter.

“What’s going on?” Limey asks after Aggie hangs up.

“The Campbells’ other house in Lodi went up in smoke. Sharpie and Christian Campbell were taken,” Aggie relays to his son gravely. “Jules is taking the boys up to Lodi to sit down with the ‘Nines and Leviathans. He wants us to stay right where we are with Luce.”

“Jesus Christ,” Limey says, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he starts to pace. “I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I.”

“They’re out there, risking their lives, and we’re stuck here. Goddamn it.” Limey comes to an abrupt stop, eyes on the door, and Aggie sighs.

“You can’t go out there,” he says. “You go, and the feds will pick you up and grill you about Luce’s whereabouts, and the judge.”

Limey huffs. “Yeah. Yeah, I know,” he says.

“We can’t have that ATF agent getting a hold of you right now, not when everything’s in flux.”

“Fuck. I _know_ ,” Limey spits, frustrated.

“Sorry, son. I’m not any happier about this situation than you are,” Aggie says.

Limey nods, eyes distant. Then he turns and heads for the back room. “I’ll bring Luce up to speed.”

Aggie doesn’t even hesitate before getting up off the couch to join him. Limey says he understands, but Aggie wouldn’t put it past his son to try and sneak out anyway. Better to keep a close eye on him.

* * *

“It’d be easier if we went in now, caught them unawares,” Raph says to Gabe. He’s already holding a blade, tossing it from hand to hand.

Crazy motherfucker.

“We’re obviously not going that route,” Gabe says.

The door to the clubhouse bursts open, and Gabe draws his gun on instinct. Beside him, Raph has his gun out and his blade in his right arm—his throwing arm, if Gabe remembers right.

But it’s just Cas, thank god, and Gabe lets out a sigh of relief.

“Holy shit,” Cas says, stepping inside with a look of apprehension. “What the hell’s wrong with you two?”

“The ‘Nines and Leviathans made a move on the Campbells’ other cookhouse in Lodi. Took Sharpie and Christian Campbell alive,” Gabe explains. “Jules already talked to Samuel, and we’re getting ready to ride up into Lodi for a meet. Guess the Campbells are gonna give up Lodi peacefully in exchange for the hostages, and a promise not to swing south into Morada.”

“Yeah, like that’s ever gonna happen,” Cas says. “If they knocked out the Campbells’ other house, then the game’s over. Lodi’s already theirs.” Nodding his head toward Jules, standing toward the back of the clubhouse, he asks, “Who’s Jules on the phone with?”

“Abaddon,” Gabe answers.

“We’re short Luce, Limey, Aggie, and Mike. And the Campbells won’t be much help against the ‘Nines and Leviathans,” Raph jumps in. “Jules is securing some backup for us when things go south.”

“ _If_ things go south,” Ghoul puts in, and Gabe rolls his eyes.

Bobby steps out of one of the back rooms, and Gabe figures he’s finished telling Aggie about what’s going on. “Cas, brother, about time you showed up,” Bobby says.

“Yeah, they just told me what happened,” Cas says. “Do we know what we’re gonna be walking into when we go up there? Any idea how many ‘Nines have moved into Lodi?”

“Not a clue,” Bobby says, shaking his head.

Jules hangs up then and comes over to the group. “We need to head out soon. Cas, it’s good you’re here. I was gonna call you next.”

“I’ve got some questions for you,” Cas says.

“They’ll have to wait ‘til after this,” Jules says.

Cas’s teeth grind together, and Gabe frowns, doesn’t know what could possibly take precedent over a patch member being held hostage, but eventually Cas steps aside.

“Yeah. After,” he concedes.

Jules, of course, seems calm as ever as he heads toward the exit. “Bacon, ride over to St. David’s. I want you sticking with Mike until we get back to Morada.”

“You got it,” Bacon says.

“Boys, roll out.”

Jules walks out the door, and the others move to follow. Cas stays right where he is, so Gabe hangs back a second, unsure whether he should try to get Cas out the door. But Bobby gestures for him to go ahead, so he follows Raph and Ghoul out the door.

Whatever shit’s going on, Bobby will know what to say.

* * *

Azazel is planning something behind Lilith’s back. She _knows_ it. Probably even before he walked out of that meeting, he’d been planning something, and she’s gonna get down to the bottom of it.

She’s pulled Jake and Ava aside, separately, but they were both evasive. Brady too, when Lilith tried him. She’s certain that they’ve been gathering the members loyal to them, pulling them closer. Drawing their loyalties more to them than to Lilith.

God, it makes Lilith want to rip their throats out.

But if she kills them, their closest followers will go with Azazel. That much she knows. Even some of the members closer to her will probably jump ship, to avoid getting killed themselves. Turning on her own gang would not be a smart play.

It just incenses her that even outside of the gang, Abaddon is running things. Sure, she has no direct influence, isn’t a member, but Azazel listens to her, hangs onto her every goddamn word.

He’s whipped, whether he admits it or not.

“Hey, Mom,” Ruby says as she drops into the seat across from her.

“You don’t sound happy to see me.”

“Yeah well, you don’t look so happy to see me, either,” Ruby snaps. But before Lilith can retort, she sighs and looks down at the menu. “Sorry. I’ve had a rough morning.”

“Yeah, you and me both,” Lilith says.

“What could possibly be troubling you, Demon Queen?” Ruby asks.

“I could do without this fucking attitude of yours,” Lilith says, frowning.

“Yeah. Sorry,” Ruby repeats. “Did you order yet?”

“No. I was waiting for you.”

“Well, I got a call from Abaddon on my way here. Can’t stay long, so I’ll probably just get a coffee to go.”

“You’re kidding me,” Lilith says. “We already hardly spend any time together, and you’re bailing now.”

“What can I say? Duty calls,” Ruby replies.

Lilith has nothing to say to that, so she keeps quiet. The waitress comes, and they both just order coffees. Ruby asks for hers in a to-go cup, and try as she may, Lilith can’t suppress how bitter that makes her feel. Abaddon’s taken her daughter away from her, too.

Conniving bitch.

“What does your darling aunt want you for?” Lilith asks.

Ruby shrugs. “She didn’t say. I didn’t ask.” When Lilith only looks at Ruby skeptically, Ruby says, “Hey, she plays her cards close to the chest. I mean, don’t you? Don’t we all?”

Lilith has to give her that. There’s no trust anymore, not between anyone. She can’t remember the last time she shared a secret with someone without some manipulative reason for it, some pro that outweighed the con of sharing the intel.

It was a long shot, trying to glean some information about Abaddon’s plans from Ruby. Ruby isn’t as close to Abaddon as Meg is—probably _because_ she’s related to Lilith. It still burns, that Ruby chose Abaddon over her.

A phone goes off, and Ruby sighs. “Ah, shit, that’s me.”

“Go on ahead,” Lilith says. “You got things to do.”

“Sorry.”

“Just go.”

Ruby nods and heads out, picking up the call as she goes. The waitress returns a little later with two cups, an apologetic look on her face when she notices that Ruby’s gone and left Lilith here on her own. Lilith’s first impulse is to lash out at her—she doesn’t need her fucking pity.

But it’s not the girl’s fault, and Lilith wants to keep coming here. They’ve got good coffee.

* * *

As soon as Dean gets out of surgery— _overseeing_ surgery, that is, seeing as the hospital couldn’t take the liability risk, on account of the slice to his palm—he hears raised voices. His name comes up, and god, that sounds like Linda and fucking Naomi.

“Dr. Winchester won’t be out of surgery for a while, and you really should be in the waiting room,” Linda is saying as Dean hurries down the hall. He turns the corner, and sure enough, Naomi is standing just beyond Linda, trying to get past her.

“It’s fine, Linda,” Dean says, before Naomi can say anything horrible. She’s got a poisonous tongue.

“Dean,” Linda says, half-turning. “I can handle this. You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. Really,” Dean insists. “I’ll talk to her in my office.”

Linda nods once, concerned, before heading off in the opposite direction.

“I need to talk to you,” Naomi says, and Dean sighs.

“Yeah, I figured,” he says. “C’mon, follow me.”

Dean leads the way to his office, and Naomi follows in silence. He figures he has an idea what she’s here for. Some pretty huge news about Jules came out last night, and he can’t think of anything else that would get her so worked up.

“All right,” Dean says when they’re in his office, the door shut behind them. “What did you want to tell me?”

“Sit down,” Naomi says.

Dean hesitates, but Naomi sits down in the chair in front of his desk, and when she doesn’t speak immediately, he caves and moves around his desk to take his seat. He locks eyes with Naomi for only a second before she averts her gaze, which is not normal.

Naomi doesn’t often shy away from eye contact.

“What?” Dean prods when she still doesn’t say anything.

“There’s—more truth to the story you heard last night,” Naomi says at last.

God, no. Dean doesn’t think he can take anymore truth.

“Jules didn’t make that call on his own,” Naomi continues. “It uh, it was something that he and Charles put in motion, together.”

“No goddamn way,” Dean says.

“I have no reason to lie to you about this.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit. You’ve got _every_ reason to lie about this,” Dean argues. “You’ve wanted me out of Morada since the second you knew I was back. You’d say anything if it would drive me away from Cas.”

“Now _that_ is bullshit,” Naomi says. “Cas wants you here. I see that now. And like _hell_ am I gonna make the same mistake twice. You’d better not even be _thinking_ about leaving town.”

Dean stares at her, more than a little startled. He may have gotten some shaky form of approval from her yesterday, but he figured with the truth that came out yesterday, maybe she’d try to give him a push, nudge him right out of Morada before he could—who knows, sink his hooks deeper into Cas, or something.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean says slowly. “I told Cas that this morning.”

Naomi’s eyes narrow. “And Sam? What about him?”

“I don’t know how that’s gonna play out,” Dean says regretfully. “But I’m not leaving Cas. I’m not planning on making the same mistake twice, either.”

The relief on Naomi’s face looks absolutely genuine, and she leans back in her seat, exhaling deeply. “Well, good,” she says faintly.

Dean thinks back on what she started off with and says, “Why… god, if you wanted me to stay, why would you come here and tell me that Chuck was in cahoots with Jules?”

Naomi sighs, a sorrowful look crossing her face. “If you were going to find out anyway, I’d rather you heard it from me. From someone who could answer your questions, if you had any.”

“Who else knows?”

“Cas suspects,” Naomi says. “And when he asks, Jules won’t lie.”

And well, if Cas found out, of course he would tell Dean. Naomi wasn’t wrong about that. But hell, stepfather or father, what fucking difference does it make? It still wasn’t Cas’s call, and Dean won’t let it come between them. Between him and what he wants so much.

“How much did you know?” Dean asks.

“At the time?” Naomi asks, and Dean nods. “Nothing.” When Dean raises a skeptical eyebrow, Naomi says, “Really, I knew nothing.” Sitting up straight, she explains, “To survive as an old lady, you gotta know either everything, or nothing. Charles, he told me nothing. Kept me in the dark. It used to kill me that Mary knew all the shit the club was going through, but I guess it helped that Bill didn’t tell Ellen anything, either.”

“So how’d you find out?” Dean asks. He tries not to ask about Mom, doesn’t want to know. Christ, what if knowing too much had something to do with Mom ending up dead?

“When I became Jules’s old lady, he decided to tell me everything. Said he wouldn’t be able to handle telling me nothing. And after Charles died, well. Some secrets are just too damn heavy to be carried alone,” Naomi says. “The burden’s too great. Setting up a best friend to be killed, no matter the reason… it’s too much.

“I was almost grateful that you and Sam had already gone by the time I found out. Knowing how your dad died, I couldn’t even imagine looking into your eyes day in and day out, a constant reminder. And then to think that Charles and Jules did it for years…”

“How could you keep it buried, even after all the shit it started with the Russians?” Dean asks. “And fuck, what about Ellen?”

“It was a choice between my old man and the only best friend I had left,” Naomi says. “By the time I found out, it had already been done. Bill had been inside for two, almost three years already, and when I weighed the consequences of telling Ellen the truth, well. It would only hurt her, and Jules. Some shit is best left buried.”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, staving off the headache he feels building up behind his eyes. “Yeah, okay. I don’t like it, but I, I get it. No good would’ve come out of telling anyone.”

Naomi’s eyes flick up to meet his, a hint of surprise in them. “Dean,” she says, quietly, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I never wanted you to leave, and I never wanted to hurt you. I might’ve gone about it the wrong way, but I just wanted to lock you down, for Cas’s sake.”

As much as Dean hates to admit it, he gets it. Naomi’s actions can always be linked back to her family, her sons. Just—Dean had almost been considered one of those sons, once.

But of course he would have been sacrificed for Cas, if it came down to that. It doesn’t matter whether Naomi knew about Dean’s promise to John. She would’ve forced him to join the club either way, because of Cas.

Hell, over the years, Dean has even wondered, more than once, what it would’ve been like if he’d broken his promise—if he’d stayed.

Dean looks up from his desk and sees that Naomi’s watching him, waiting.

“I know,” Dean says. “I get that, now,” he adds, and sees the way Naomi’s eyes soften. “All I could hear was that you were trapping me—that what I wanted didn’t matter, and that it was all or nothing, and I couldn’t—”

“I understand,” Naomi says. “That was too big a choice to lay at your feet when you were still so young. For that, I’m sorry.”

Unbelievably, Dean feels his throat constrict, a pang in his chest, and god, his eyes are prickling. Fuck, really? _Now?_

But they’d been like mother and son, once.

He looks Naomi in the eye again, sees that she’s all welled up too.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he says, getting to his feet, because it doesn’t matter how late this is, how long ago it all happened. Naomi stands too, but she only really has time to turn before Dean reaches her and pulls her in, and god, she’d seemed like a titan to him, fierce and immense, reassuring and scary all at once.

He holds her tight, hardly able to believe that it’s really happening.

Christ, when did she get so small?

“Dean,” she says, choked up. “Oh, sweet boy, I’ve missed you.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, barely holding it together. “Shut up,” he repeats, but Naomi’s laughing a little, and a knot that Dean had hardly been aware of, a knot that’s probably been there since he walked out of Bobby’s place, two duffel bags in one hand and Sam’s hand in the other, finally, _finally_ loosens.

Dean doesn’t know how long they stand there, but eventually, he releases her, and Naomi takes a step back, looking up at him with watery eyes.

“You got so big,” she says, and it sounds so obvious, so _normal_ , that Dean doesn’t know what to do with it.

He grabs her a tissue in lieu of answering.

Then there’s a knock on the door, and Dean clears his throat, grabs himself a tissue, too. “Who is it?” he calls.

“Uh, Kevin Tran. Here to shadow you?”

Ah, right. Linda asked Dean if it’d be okay for her son to shadow him for a day or two, since his hand was healing up, and he’d only be overseeing surgeries anyway. The cut was only to the skin, no nerve damage or detrimental effect on his mobility—he stitched up Luce just fine, after all—but again, the hospital won’t take the liability risk of letting him operate on an injured hand.

Probably picking up on the last name, Naomi says, “That Linda is awfully protective of you.”

She seems completely composed again, and Dean flashes a quick smile in her direction. “She’s just wary of the club,” he says.

“Well. I should drop in to see Mike, since I’m here.”

Dean nods and goes to open the door. He waits for Naomi to step out before gesturing for Kevin to come in.

“Sorry—didn’t know you were meeting with someone,” the boy says.

“It’s fine. We were just about finished, anyway,” Dean says. “So, your mom said you were interested in going to med school?”

* * *

The ‘Nines and Leviathans are already in formation when the Reapers and Campbells reach to the turnout. Raph parks his bike next to Cas’s, and Ghoul pulls up next to him. The Campbells pull up to their right, and god, they really are outnumbered.

He counts eleven ‘Nines and seven Leviathans—though three of them are prospects. That’s eighteen men they’d have to put down. _And_ Sharpie and Christian are at risk, standing front and center. They’re bound, with a Lafitte twin posted behind each of them.

Fuck, they’re as good as dead, when this goes south.

Raph meets Sharpie’s eyes and is gratified to find no fear in them. However this ends, Sharpie is ready. The Campbell boy, on the other hand, looks terrified.

“Morning, fellas,” Dick says, strutting toward them as they move away from their bikes.

“Morning,” Jules answers. “You seem to have come across a friend of ours.”

“Picked up an insurance policy earlier this morning is all,” Dick says.

“Mind telling us what you’re insuring against?” Jules says.

“Retaliation,” Alpha says, stepping forward. “We’ve evened the score with you, and we aren’t looking to spill more blood, not if we don’t have to. Bad for business.”

Evened the score, he says. Famine is _blind in one eye_.

“You kidnapped my granddaughter,” Jules says. “Don’t you think that went a little too far?”

“You killed one of my men,” Alpha says. “And you got your granddaughter back. I’d say we’re even.”

“What of Famine’s eye, then?”

“We could go on like this all day and never find an end to it,” Alpha says. “Too much history between us.”

With the truth that just came out at the table last night, Raph believes that much.

“Look, let’s just get to what we came here to do,” Cas says. “You brought the hostages here—means you’ve got a price for them. Name it.”

“The Campbells stay out of Lodi. Their time here is over,” Alpha says.

Clearly, even though the ‘Nines are the newcomers in Lodi, they wear the pants in the ‘Nines-Leviathans relationship.

“Done,” Samuel says, drawing Alpha’s gaze, and Raph is startled by how quickly he agreed to that.

Maybe the old man _has_ wised up some.

Turning eyes back on Jules, Alpha takes another step forward, and Raph’s hand twitches involuntarily, ready to reach for his gun. “I know you don’t want drugs in Morada. If you want it to be out of bounds, then you’ll have to give us Stockton.”

Slightly behind Alpha, Dick throws a glare in his direction but says nothing, confirming Raph’s pants theory.

“I don’t have the authority to make that kind of call, but even if I did, I would say no,” Jules says.

“We’re not bluffing, here,” Alpha says, gesturing back toward the hostages. In the same motion, the twins lift blades to the hostages’ throats. Raph immediately draws his weapon and raises it, and pretty much everyone else draws. The sound of safeties clicking off goes all around the turnout, yet Alpha’s voice remains even. “If you don’t agree to at least open up safe passage to Stockton, we’ll kill them, right in front of you.”

“Hey, now,” Samuel cuts in a little nervously. “I already agreed to the condition you asked of my family. Shouldn’t you at least give me back my boy?”

“Your family is impotent. Do you really think we have anything to fear from you? The Reapers are the only real threat in Morada,” Dick says.

“What is your answer, Jules?” Alpha asks.

“God, just give them what they want,” Samuel says.

“We won’t lie down just because you think you have a bigger stick,” Jules says, and fuck, shit’s about to jump off.

“Boys,” Alpha says even as he steps back.

Raph shoots first, because now that Luce is out of commission, he’s taken it upon himself to act as a sort of unofficial SA. Shots go off all around him, and Raph thinks he sees the body behind Sharpie drop, but then he catches sight of red—a sea of red.

It’s arterial spray, unmistakable, coming from Sharpie’s neck.

* * *

Tammi watches with the others, a hand at her brow in an attempt to block out the morning sun. They’re useless here, can’t hear fucking shit. How are they supposed to know when it’s time to ride in to the rescue? If they wait ‘til the shooting starts, it’ll be too goddamn late, won’t it?

But Tammi doesn’t bother voicing her concerns. This was Abaddon’s choice, and Bela had agreed on it. Means Tammi has to be here, even though it’s the last place she wants to be.

Christ, this meet hardly even has anything to do with them. It’s just Abaddon’s inexplicable soft spot for the Reapers that has them here. They don’t need to worry about shit that goes down in Lodi. It’s beyond their borders, off their turf. Hell, it’s not even _Reaper_ territory.

Turning away from the meet, Tammi looks out toward the main road and thinks she spots something movement in the distance—more than the usual traffic.

“Uh, guys—” she starts.

But before she can finish, Abaddon says, “All right, looks like this is it. Come on, girls!”

Tammi sprints over to her bike—orders from Abaddon are to be followed without question. She chances a glance back at the meet as she revs up the engine and sees that guns are raised on either side, blades shoved against the hostages’ necks.

Ah, shit. There’s just no way everyone’s gonna make it out of this alive.

* * *

In all his years of dealing, Ed has never seen chaos like this. The last comparable situation he can imagine is Bloody ‘92, and he’d fortunately been out of town at the time.

He doesn’t even get a single shot off before ducking down, resorting to barely coherent prayers that he won’t get hit, and sees Christian hit the ground rolling. By some miracle, the Lafitte twin who’d been behind him didn’t actually kill him, and in the next moment, Christian has crossed the space between them, left hand pressed to a gushing wound somewhere between his neck and right shoulder.

“Shit, c’mon!” Gwen is shouting, and she’s got a hold of Christian’s elbow, hauling him toward the car. “ _Dad!_ ”

Ed forces himself to move. Samuel’s already inside with the engine running, and Ed hurries to the passenger side. Above the cacophony of gunshots, he hears motors revving, sees bikes approaching from the opposite side of the road.

Jesus, who would ride _into_ this shit?

He ducks into the car, and Samuel slams on the gas before Ed’s even got the door fully closed. The car jolts into reverse, and Ed only just thrusts a hand against the dashboard, narrowly avoiding bashing his forehead against it.

But he hasn’t the energy to complain, and god, he just wants _out_.

Samuel maneuvers back onto the road, and Ed becomes aware of the blood all up his uncle’s sleeve. A bullet must’ve grazed his arm.

Police cars appear farther down the road, coming toward them, and Ed curses.

“What’re we gonna do?”

But Samuel doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even slow down.

“We have to get to a hospital,” Gwen says from the backseat. “He’s losing a lot of blood.”

“I know,” Samuel says tightly.

The police cars come to a stop, apparently setting up a blockade, and Ed stares at his uncle, who still shows no sign of slowing down. The police cars all read Morada PD, which is surprising, seeing as they’re in Lodi, but who cares what town the police are from when they’re about to be _arrested?_

Except—

There’s a gap left open, just wide enough for a car to get through, and Samuel drives right through it. Ed spins around in his seat, startled, and watches as one of the police cars drives up and fills the gap.

“Questions later,” Samuel says.

And yeah. Yeah, later. Because no matter what, you don’t fucking _rat_. That was what Samuel told them, years ago, but as usual, looks like the rules don’t apply to the guy who makes them.

Any other time, finding this truth out would have Ed demanding to be let out of the goddamn car, but today, the anger doesn’t stick. It’ll all be pointless if Christian dies.

“I don’t care anymore,” Ed says. “This is over. You hear me, Samuel? It’s over.”

Ed isn’t sure what he expects, but it sure isn’t a quiet, “Yeah. I know.”

* * *

The command comes out of Alpha’s mouth, but for the first time in a long time, Benny hesitates. It’s only a split second, but it’s long enough for his quarry to start moving, and when he shoves the knife down, he only catches Christian Campbell’s shoulder.

A bullet narrowly misses him, and he dives to the side, using Christian for a moment of cover, long enough to get behind a car.

But—shit, Eli’s been hit.

The Reaper lies bleeding out at Eli’s feet, but he’s having trouble pushing himself back to his feet, and maybe it’s only his arm this time, but on top of the shot Cas dealt him just under a week ago—goddamn it, Benny _told_ him to sit this one out.

Benny braces himself before racing out from his hiding place, firing shots steadily at the Reapers as he crosses to his twin. He hauls him to his feet, and then a Leviathan—Mully, Benny thinks, steps up, covers them until they get behind Gordon’s van.

“I’m fine,” Eli pants, but his face is pale, and his grip on Benny’s arm is _very_ tight.

Benny casts his eyes around, taking stock. Two of Gordon’s boys are down; the rest of them are behind a sedan, firing shots over it. Mully—the Leviathan who’d covered Benny—is on the ground, a gunshot wound to the chest, and another Leviathan is there, head bowed, trying frantically to stop the bleeding. The other Leviathans are spread out, but it looks like Mully might be their only man down.

The Reapers have taken cover behind their bikes, and those—those are more bikes, coming over from the main road.

Reinforcements?

“We need to get out of here!” Benny says. He catches Gordon’s eye and nods toward the van—he doesn’t have the keys to the van, and Gordon doesn’t have keys to the car.

“I can get over there,” Eli says, but leave it to him to play down how bad he’s hurt.

“Shut up and stay put,” Benny says firmly.

He takes off toward the sedan, and at the same time, Gordon and his boys leap out from behind the sedan, heading toward the van.

“Eli’s hit!” Benny warns them as they cross paths, and he’s relieved to see that Luther is with Alpha, beside the sedan.

The Campbells are nowhere to be seen, Benny realizes belatedly as he peers over the top of the car. Then again, he’d expected as much. There’s no _real_ fight in that family.

The reinforcements reach the turnout and don’t even bother getting off their bikes—they just plant their feet and start firing, and Benny turns away, sits safe behind the cover of the car and reloads, because there’s no point trying to shoot back before the newcomers have finished their first round.

As soon as there’s some quiet, Benny gets a better look and says, “Amazons.”

“Any Demons?” Alpha asks as the Leviathans begin to return fire.

Benny shakes his head and glances over at the van to find Gordon taking aim. He follows Gordon’s line of sight across the turnout, where the Reapers have gotten onto their bikes.

“The Reapers are leaving,” Benny reports. “The Amazons are turning around with them.”

“Let them go,” Alpha says. “Our odds of chasing them down are not good, with the Amazons helping them.”

A Leviathan is shouting for the others to follow him, and Benny gets out from behind the car to put a stop to any efforts at a chase.

It turns out to be unnecessary, though, because Dick barks, “Shut the fuck up and get back here!”

The prospects who’d been getting onto their bikes freeze where they are, and Benny turns his attention toward the backs of the bikers, riding away.

“I think I shot him. Jules, that is,” Gordon says abruptly, appearing at Benny’s side.

It takes a moment for the words to make sense. “ _What?_ ”

“He jerked forward in his seat,” Gordon says. “I didn’t see any blood—too much dust. And I couldn’t tell whether he jerked because of the movements of his bike, or because of the shot. But I’m pretty sure.”

“Good,” Dick says, stepping closer. “If he dies, the VP will have to take over.” Eyes shifting to Benny’s left, he asks Alpha, “You think he’s ready to lead?”

“I haven’t spoken much with him, but it would not do well to underestimate him,” Alpha replies.

Adrenaline fading a little now that the danger is over, Benny walks away from the two leaders to find his twin. Eli looks all right, perched just inside the open side door of the van, but he’s still bleeding from his left arm. Benny tucks his gun away and grabs for one of the bags in the car—Gordon is sure to have brought medical supplies.

He finds what he needs to patch Eli up, but as he works, he sees that his brother’s eyes are elsewhere, and when he follows his gaze, he wishes he hadn’t.

Gordon has taken a knee beside one of the boys who fell, still in death. He presses a kiss to the boy’s forehead, and—Benny hadn’t even known his name, only knew that he was one of the youngest. Then Gordon moves on to the other boy, and this one, this one is still breathing, chest rattling.

“Fuck,” Eli says, ducking his head, but Benny can’t take his eyes away.

This boy gets a kiss to the forehead as well, but it’s immediately followed by the muzzle of Gordon’s gun.

In the quiet after the battle, this gunshot sounds deafeningly loud, and a number of the men standing around flinch noticeably.

“Oh, my god,” a Leviathan prospect says.

Benny turns back to his work, wrapping Eli’s arm up. They’ll have to unwrap and disinfect it when they get to safety, but stopping the bleeding is more important right this moment.

Gordon steps closer, followed by two of his boys, and says, “Alpha wants the two of you to ride in the van with us. Connor and Dale will join him and Luther. More room to tend to wounds here.”

In the distance, Benny hears sirens. He looks up and pauses, because Christ, Gordon’s left cheek is splattered with the second boy’s blood.

“Yeah, seems we’ve attracted the law’s attention,” Gordon says, misunderstanding Benny’s pause.

Eli slides into the van fully, and Benny gets in after him. Gordon goes around to the driver’s side, and when they’re all inside, he starts the van.

“Do you think we’ll get out of here before they arrive?” Eli asks.

“We have a window,” Gordon replies. “The Reapers and Amazons left in the direction the police are coming from, so they’ll slow them down some.”

“Think Mully will make it?” Benny asks, looking out the back window as the prospects help move Mully into the bed of the Leviathans’ truck.

“Doubt it,” Gordon says. “But I’ve been wrong before.”

The van lurches into motion.

* * *

When they’d just gotten onto the dirt road leading back to the highway, Alf had been close to the front of the pack. But they’ve since reshuffled, and he’s where he belongs, riding beside Raph, behind Bobby and Gabe. Up ahead, Cas and Jules ride side by side, and behind Alf are Ghoul and the Amazons.

Alf didn’t know Sharpie that well, hardly spoke to him at all, but he hasn’t ever seen a Reaper fall, and this—it’s a reminder that they’re all still human, still flesh and blood.

A patch and a cut do not grant invincibility.

But at least the rest of them are whole, Alf thinks. It could have been so much worse.

But then Jules’s bike lists to the side, slows down, and oh, fuck, fuck-fuck- _fuck_ —

Gabe swerves to the right, forcing Bobby to swerve and make room for him, and Alf brakes hard, only just saving himself from clipping the back of Gabe’s bike. To Alf’s right, Raph is hollering something unintelligibly. Well— _everyone’s_ shouting.

Jules goes down, bike spinning out into the dust.

Gabe manages to stop himself at the shoulder, but Bobby’s bike runs straight off the road. Bobby manages to jump off—well, _fall_ off, really—before the bike goes sailing down the hill, but momentum keeps him moving, and he rolls out of sight.

Alf comes to a screeching halt next to Raph and races over to Jules where he lies. Cas reaches him a moment before, dropping to his knees practically even as he’s still running, and Raph immediately falls beside him.

God, there’s so much blood. Was he _hit?_

“Go get Bobby!” Cas barks up at Alf, and he nods, takes off running down the hill where he’d seen Bobby’s bike go over.

Gabe’s already most of the way there, kicking up a ton of dust as he runs through the brush. Bobby groans and lifts an arm, and Alf sighs, immensely relieved. Thank _god_.

By the time Alf gets there, Gabe has tugged him to his feet and hauled him into a hug.

“Get the hell off me, _boy_ ,” Bobby complains as he shoves Gabe away from him.

“You okay?” Alf asks, looking him over.

“Fine,” Bobby answers gruffly. “We gotta check on Jules. Something’s not right.”

“Is Bobby okay?!” comes a shout from the top of the hill—Raph.

“He’s good!” Gabe bellows.

“Then get your asses up here! Jules’s been hit!”

Ah, fuck, well that confirms it.

It takes longer to get back up the hill than it did to go down, and Bobby stumbles twice, a little shaky on his feet after the fall. As they reach the top, Alf hears sirens. Jesus Christ, he can’t even _imagine_ worse timing than this.

An Amazon comes riding back from up ahead, and when Alf looks over at the bikes parked at the side of the road, he counts four unfamiliar ones—those’ll be the rest of the Amazons’, their riders standing in a circle around Cas and Jules. Raph stands with them, completing their circle, but they break apart a little as the fifth Amazon gets off her bike.

“There was a police blockade up ahead,” she says quickly. “I turned around as soon as I spotted them, but I think they saw me—they’ll be coming around the bend in a minute or two, tops.”

“Fuck. What are we gonna do?” Gabe says.

“We’re gonna stay here. It’s good the police are coming,” Cas says. “We don’t have a van or a truck or even a goddamn car, and we gotta get Jules to the hospital.”

Jules makes a sound, and everyone falls silent to hear what he has to say, but he only coughs, a hand reaching up and clutching at Cas’s cut.

“How bad is it?” Alf asks, moving closer to get a better look.

Jules is half curled up on his side, head pulled into Cas’s lap. Cas has one hand pressed to the old man’s back, bloody.

“The bullet’s lodged high in his chest,” Raph reports. “Struck him in the back—must’ve been just as we were leaving. I’d be surprised he stayed on his bike as long as he did, but then, Jules has always been a tough old bastard.”

“Raph’s right,” Bobby says, taking a knee in the dirt next to Cas. “He’ll pull through.”

Cas’s jaw clenches visibly, and his eyes seem angry when they land on Bobby. But his next words come out surprisingly level, and they’re not directed at Bobby. “Abaddon, you and your girls oughta get outta here before you’re spotted.”

“Ruby was already seen,” Abaddon says even as her second-in-command grabs at her arm. “We’re not just gonna _run away_.”

“We don’t know how this is gonna land with the cops,” Bobby says, head tipping up to meet Abaddon’s eyes. The police sirens get louder—closer. “If we all end up inside, we’re going to need all the help we can get outside. You and your crew getting picked up with us ain’t gonna do us any good.”

“Ah, fuck,” Abaddon says, eyes shifting from Bobby to Jules.

“We’ll take care of him,” Cas says. “Just go!”

Abaddon nods once, quick, and leads the way to the bikes, hopping onto hers and taking off. Four bikes follow her away, and not a moment too soon, because the first police car rounds the bend not ten seconds later.

Alf grabs Gabe’s arm and runs out onto the road, because they might as well do whatever they can to slow the police down, help the Amazons get away.

“Jesus _Christ!_ ” Gabe yelps, but he runs out with Alf, and the police cars immediately hit the brakes, tires skidding on asphalt.

The first two cars have to swerve, only _just_ missing Alf and skidding to a stop somewhere behind him, but the ones after have enough time to stop, and police officers stream out, guns pointed at them. Alf recognizes a few of them, all local cops, familiar faces. Deputy Henriksen is among them, but Chief Turner is not.

Alf lets go of Gabe’s arm to throw his hands up in the air, and when he glances to his right, Bobby and Raph are doing the same.

“We need an ambulance!” Bobby shouts before any of the policemen can say anything. “Someone’s been shot!”

The agent who’d barged into the clubhouse Monday night—Crowley—climbs out of one of the cars, looking insufferably smug. He makes his way up, and Alf braces himself to hear some arrogant shit-talking, but then the door on the other side of the car opens, and that’s _Sam Winchester_ , stepping out of Crowley’s car.

And okay, maybe that doesn’t hold huge meaning for Alf personally, but that’s gotta be huge for the other guys—the ones who grew up with him, the ones who watched him grow up.

Who fucking raised this ungrateful son of a bitch.

The expression on Bobby’s face is pained more than anything else, but when Alf looks at Cas, he only sees worry, which—yeah okay, Sam working with the ATF is a realization that’s gotta move a slot back ‘cause Jules is _dying_.

“Are you all deaf?” Cas shouts, breaking the tense silence. “We need a fucking ambulance!”

That wipes the smug smile off Crowley’s face, and he picks up the pace, hurrying past the haphazardly parked police cars to take a look. Across from Alf, Deputy Henriksen ducks back into his car to talk into his police radio—that had better be him calling an ambulance.

And then there are more sirens, these ones coming from the north—Lodi.

God, _really?_

Alf looks back toward Morada PD, and Crowley seems surprisingly displeased.

Gabe tugs on his arm then, and Alf follows him to the side of the road, joining Bobby and Raph. Guns stay trained on them, and Christ, how long will it take an ambulance to get here?

But then the sirens from Lodi come nearer, and holy crap, front and center is an ambulance. It can’t be in response to Deputy Henriksen, seeing as he only spoke into his radio a less than a minute ago.

The ambulance stops abruptly on the shoulder, and medical personnel come running out. An all-black car screeches to a stop a short distance from the ambulance, followed by a large police van. Out of the black car steps the man who’d ruffled everyone’s feathers when he showed up yesterday: Bartholomew.

After he’d gone yesterday, Alf had gotten a quick rundown from the guys.

Years ago, Bartholomew had been in town, investigating a murder. It had been a club decision to kill the guy whose death Bartholomew was looking into, because he was a rat who’d gotten out of jail, and they were doing it as a favor for—well, for _reasons that didn’t matter anymore and that Alf didn’t need to know_ , Gabe had cut in angrily.

At the time, Mike and his old lady had been having some marital problems. Bartholomew had swept in while their bond was at its weakest, and he’d convinced her to take Mike’s son and leave him.

No wonder seeing the son of a bitch again pissed everyone off.

Now, Bartholomew stalks right past the Reapers and toward the officers from Morada, taking a badge out as he does. “Special Agent Morris, FBI. Lower your weapons.”

Some of the police officers follow the order, but others look to Agent Crowley for confirmation.

“Crowley, you don’t want to be on my bad side,” Bartholomew says. Turning back toward the police officers, he says, “I’m ordering you to stand down.”

Alf is expecting Crowley to protest, so he’s surprised when the response comes from behind the police cars—Sam fucking Winchester, of course.

“How is this your jurisdiction?”

“I’m afraid that’s above your friend’s paygrade,” Bartholomew says, nodding toward Crowley. “By association, it’s above yours, too.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“What’re you gonna do?” Bartholomew challenges before Sam can say any more. “Arrest the man? He’s been shot. If it’d been left to you morons, you’d be arresting a dead man.”

Footsteps come up to Alf from behind, and he turns away from the exchange, surprised to see a policewoman from the Lodi PD approaching. He glances over at Gabe just to get confirmation that he ought to submit to this, and at Gabe’s slight nod, Alf holds out his wrists for the woman to cuff.

Turning his head, Alf watches as the medics load Jules up onto a gurney. Cas goes to follow, but a police officer steps into his way.

“That’s my old man,” Cas protests.

The policewoman leads Alf toward the van, and behind him follow Gabe, then Bobby, and finally Raph, all similarly cuffed. Bartholomew brings up the rear, and farther back, by the police cars, Alf catches sight of Sam’s furious expression as Crowley talks to him.

“You’re going to have to come with us, sir,” the police officer tells Cas.

“I won’t just—”

“Boys, take him away,” Bartholomew interrupts, but then he grabs Cas’s elbow and steps in closer, says something that Alf is too far away to hear.

Whatever he says, it works, because Cas backs off, lets himself be cuffed.

Alf laughs to himself, just a little, and gets a funny look from Gabe, who’s walking next to him now.

“It’s nothing,” Alf says. “Just my luck, y’know. Day two of being a patch member, and I end up in cuffs.”

Gabe huffs as Alf gets into the back of the van. “You know how it is. Gotta keep things interesting.”

* * *

Today definitely tops the most terrifying days of Georgie’s life.

He knows that the MC’s been in gunfights before, and he’s even been present for them, but never with so many people, so many clubs involved.

Also, he’s never actually been shot before.

Well. Okay, so maybe he was only grazed on his left arm. He saw three people die today—two of the younger ‘Nines, and one of their own prospects. And Mully’s in pretty bad shape. He got shot in the chest, and Joe’s face is white with worry, the way it always gets when someone is hurt, ‘cause he’s the only one who’s got serious medical experience.

So, all things considering, Georgie got off easy. But his arm hurts like a _mother_ , and all he wants is to go home and curl up in bed.

He so was not cut out for this life. Everything’s all fine and dandy when they’re riding around intimidating people and talking shit, but actual kill-or-be-killed situations scare the bejeezus out of him, and after this, well. After this, he might really have to tap out.

But even as this thought crosses his mind, he doubts he’ll really be able to get out. He loves Susan, and she’s also ridiculously persuasive. Damn it.

“Here—Joe said to hold this against your wound,” a prospect says, holding out a gauze pad.

Georgie accepts the pad and presses it against his arm with a hiss. Goddamn it, _ow_.

“Ah, shit,” Joe curses loudly. “I’m gonna need some help, here.”

Surprisingly, Alpha Worthington steps forward before anyone else can. “I have steady hands,” he says. “What do you need?”

“Let me,” one of the Lafitte twins—the one who didn’t get shot—says. “We need to re-strategize.”

Alpha concedes with a nod, letting the Lafitte twin pull on some gloves. Georgie hurriedly moves away from the table, because he doesn’t think he can handle seeing Mully die right now, and he really doesn’t like Mully’s chances.

The door bangs open then, and Susan appears in the doorway.

“Jesus Christ, I told you not to come here,” Dick says, taking a step in her direction.

But Susan catches sight of Georgie and hurries over to him. “Are you all right? God, have you been shot?”

“It was just a graze,” Georgie says, playing it down ‘cause he’s in front of the guys.

“Susan,” Dick says, tone reprimanding.

“Shut the fuck up. He’s my brother, and I’m allowed to worry,” she snaps.

“Please,” Alpha says before Dick can get worked up. “Now is not the time. Come.”

Alpha starts moving away from the operating table, probably to give Joe and Lafitte some space and quiet to work. Georgie goes with the rest of the group, and Susan follows, pulling the gauze away to look at the wound.

“Your son’s right; we need to regroup,” Dick says.

“I know,” Alpha says.

“We didn’t anticipate the Amazons showing up today—or during our takeover of Morada. If Stockton backs the Reapers, we’ll be at a distinct disadvantage,” Dick says.

“I agree,” Alpha says with a nod. “I do not have a friendly relationship with Abaddon or either of the co-leaders of the Demons, and I doubt you do, either.”

“Nope, I don’t like any of them,” Dick confirms. “And I never really knew Cain—he’d retired by the time I’d gathered enough momentum to start looking beyond our borders.”

“I crossed paths with Cain a few times over the years,” Alpha says. “I couldn’t call him a friend, though. And I doubt he’d have much influence over the gang now. Better to pull strings that are directly tied to the current co-leaders, or to Abaddon.”

Dick heaves a sigh. “Yeah. Makes sense. I just don’t have any strings to pull.”

Susan’s grip tightens on Georgie’s wrist, and he hisses, then curses internally as all eyes turn on him. “I’m okay,” he says, gently pulling his wrist out of Susan’s grasp.

“I don’t have any strings to pull,” Dick repeats slowly, eyes landing on Susan, “but you do.”

“What?”

Dick turns back toward Alpha and says, “More directly, you. Your daughter-in-law—Eli’s wife. She was close to Azazel, wasn’t she?”

“She might have been, yes,” Alpha says thoughtfully.

“Think we could use her?”

“Perhaps,” Alpha says.

“But she’s my friend,” Susan says.

“We will not be putting her in any danger,” Alpha says in what is probably supposed to be a comforting tone. Really, he just sounds scarily calm. “She’s my daughter-in-law, after all. I care very much about her.”

Daughter-in-law. Brother. Friend. All these ties, they fuck everything up. If Susan weren’t Georgie’s sister, he could be free of this life.

Times like this, Georgie wishes he didn’t have a family.

* * *

Andrea is the first person to stand when the phone rings, but Kate leaps up right after.

“I’ll get it,” Andrea says, already on her way to grab it.

“Sit,” Lenore says, a hand wrapping around Kate’s wrist to pull her back onto the couch.

Kate folds, lets herself be pulled down. Her eyes land on the TV in front of them, playing some TV show, but she doesn’t really see it. No matter how much Kate worries, Luther is out there, and he won’t be back ‘til the job is done. All of her worrying won’t change a damn thing. She knows this, logically, but she still can’t _stop_.

“He’s going to be fine,” Lenore says.

“Yeah,” Kate says, a bit numb. When Luther’s out with Alpha, she hates every hour that passes without word from him.

Andrea walks back into the room, phone to her ear. “All right; here she is,” she says, holding the phone out to Lenore. As Lenore takes it, Andrea says, “It’s Alpha.”

Lenore nods and says, “Hello?”

There’s a pause, and then she gets to her feet, starts wandering out of the room.

Kate holds it for maybe five seconds, but she has to ask. _Has_ to. “Is everyone okay?”

“Luther’s fine,” Andrea tells her, and she smiles. But Andrea goes on, “Eli got shot, again.”

“Fuck,” Kate says.

“He’ll be all right. It was just a shot to the arm—he can walk around on his own,” Andrea says.

Kate can’t help but think that that’s a fucked up definition of being _all right_ —shot but still able to walk. But this was the life Luther chose, and Kate can’t begrudge him that. She knew what she was getting into when she decided to be with him, and she’ll learn to handle this.

“How do you do it?” she blurts out, and Andrea tilts her head a little, uncomprehending.

“Do what?”

“This,” Kate says. “You’re a rock. You and Lenore both. How do you do it?”

Andrea smiles. “Benny’s a tough son of a bitch. I know he’ll come home to me.”

“But I just—how can you _know?_ ” Kate presses.

“It’s faith, I guess,” Andrea says with a shrug. “I hadn’t thought about it that much. Benny and Eli grew up on the streets, and they were brought up by Alpha himself. I guess I trust Benny to be able to take care of himself. I’m sure it’s the same for Lenore.”

Kate sighs, because that doesn’t help her. Luther didn’t grow up on the streets, and he wasn’t taken in by Alpha. He’s just like any other guy, except he’s maybe ten times more likely to be in a situation where he might get shot.

“You have to learn to trust him,” Andrea says eventually, picking up on Kate’s discontent. “Alpha wouldn’t bring him close if he didn’t trust Luther’s ability to look after himself.”

Kate manages a small smile. “Thanks, Andrea.”

Lenore comes back into the room then, phone no longer pressed to her ear. She looks a little shaken, and Kate scoots over to make room for her between herself and Andrea.

“He’s fine,” Andrea says as Lenore sits down.

“Yes, I know,” Lenore replies, like stone.

How do they _do_ it?

* * *

Ruby isn’t home when Sam gets back, but then, he hadn’t expected her to be.

Fuck, he knew it. He _knew_ it.

Despite all Ruby’s reassurances, he’d known all along that Amazons MC was an outlaw gang, no better than the Reapers. Today, he’d had the proof shoved in his face, had to watch as Ruby turned tail and booked it to go warn her fellow outlaws that the police were waiting for them.

And yet, despite knowing what he did, he’d wanted to believe her, wanted so hard that he ignored his gut instinct.

Despite knowing what he knows now—despite having _confirmation_ , he wants to go back to denial, because that means he’ll still be able to have her.

The lawman fell for the outlaw. God, it’s so cliché it makes Sam want to throw something.

He collapses on the couch because he doesn’t think he can look at their shared bed right now. Except everything in this apartment reminds him of Ruby now.

On the bookshelf sits the book on Civil Procedure that she’d tried to read for kicks. She’d given up two pages in. Little toy motorcycles line the windowsill nearest Sam. Her favorite sweater is flung over one of the arm of the couch to Sam’s right.

They really haven’t known each other _that_ long. Ruby moved in maybe a month ago, yet it feels like they’ve been together forever—feels like there’s nothing in Sam’s life that she hasn’t touched.

God, does he—does he love her?

Sam buries his face in his hands. He needs to talk to her about this. Just—when? How? She probably didn’t see him, since he was standing next to Crowley’s car among a squad of police officers when she came skidding to a stop. But he saw her, and he can’t just go on pretending he didn’t.

Maybe he does love Ruby. Maybe he doesn’t. The more important question is—what’ll he do about it?

Love won’t suddenly turn something wrong into something right. Sam isn’t Dean. He can’t just _excuse_ what Amazons MC does because he loves Ruby, and he can’t ignore what Reapers MC does because of his love for Cas. And just like Ruby, despite everything, Sam _does_ still love Cas, and Jimmy, and Limey.

No matter what, they grew up together. They were _brothers_.

Fuck.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some actual notes about the chapter: because of the long gap, I'm actually kind of terrified that the voices and pacing are inconsistent with what I had going before. I've tried to keep to the same feel, but it's been a bit of a struggle for me to get back into these people's heads. Hope this was okay.
> 
> As for finally getting this damn thing wrapped up... I'm positive I'll need more than one chapter to tie everything up, especially after what went down this chapter. Setting a tentative goal for finishing it all up in a total of fifteen chapters. Three is sounding like the magic number for getting everything to come together. Hopefully we won't have to wait a year between each chapter, though. Yikes. (And again, sorry!!)


End file.
